Each and every morning, I wake to the hopeful possibility that I may, for once, actually get something done around the house. I could get all the dishes done and put away, in fact, I may just re-line the shelves like I have been wanting to do for the last six months. I can dust all the little knick knacks that are strangely starting to resemble the dust bunnies that have formed a permanent settlement underneath the beds. I could destroy their colony with the vacuum cleaner, thus preventing the possibility of an uprising and my waking in the morning, tied to my bed and staring at a home-made weapon fashioned out of an old sweaty gym sock held to my throat as the dusty throated leader makes his demands while holding my vacuum hostage.

I could weed the garden and discover whether or not any of my vegetables are actually sprouting. I could finally get the laundry done, thus eliminating the possibility of meeting my husband's pants in the hallway. Standing up. Without him in them. I could rid my fridge of the science fair projects waiting to happen and then go grocery shopping for nothing but healthy food and restock said refrigeration unit with these healthy snacks that my children automatically enjoy better than cookies.

Alas, none of this is to happen, for the moment that I roll out of bed, my family and friends begin to make demands upon me as though I have nothing more important to do. I have heard many times the trite old adage of, "Well, all your going to do is watch soap operas anyway, and this will get you out of the house." What they seem to fail to realize, however, is that I have to be, at some point, in my house to get out of it in the first place. Also, it is a well known fact that I do not have cable, as I am not home enough to watch it and I never did like the over-acting, under-talented actors of the soap genre to begin with.

I am running to and fro, hither and yon, all the while daydreaming of the domestic tasks back at home that are begging for my attention. My blender is about ready to ask for a divorce and citing irreconcilable differences, my vacuum is having an affair with the lawn mower, and don't even get me started on the bleak state of my relationship with my dishwasher who has become very distant and cold lately, and I am starting to wonder if it has anything to do with the microwave creating feelings of spontaneous combustion in her lately.

There seems to be a misguided belief that us Stay-At-Home moms do nothing but sit about all day, watching television, bathing in tubs full of bubbles, and adjusting our pearls. We are supposed to have a roast baking for supper while a sumptuous dessert is bubbling away on the stove and the broom magically glides around the kitchen, assisting in the cleanliness that is our home.

The sad reality is that I rarely get a shower, let alone a bath, supper is whatever I can make in fifteen minutes, and dessert? HA! If you wanted dessert, you should have finished your dinner! Perhaps it is the fact that I do not own a strand of pearls that causes all of my plans to go awry. Perhaps if I had pearls to adjust, I would magically be able to get everything done. Was that how June Cleaver did it?