I am not The Pioneer Women.
I like her.
I get her humor.
I am a house-wife, somewhat desperate in nature.
I do have a blog.
But there the similarities end.
I do not live in the country.
I have no Basset hounds in my life.
I do not have red hair.
I do not have thousands of readers.
I do not have multiple book deals, movies and cooking shows in the works.
I don't channel Lucille Ball, Vivien Leigh, or Ethel Merman, ever.
And guess what?
I'm okay with all that.*
I am a Chicken.
A prairie hen to be precise.
* OK, I'm a bit jealous if the book-deal bit
Some time ago I read one of Ree's posts about what was on her kitchen floor after seven days of not sweeping. She featured a picture of the resulting pile of dirt and miscellaneous debris.
I don't know why it stuck with me.
Maybe the distinct signs of life that the pile showed.
Maybe the feelings of reality and home that a post like that is meant to evoke.
Maybe the incredulity at seeing that 387 people were touched by and commented on her dirt.
But even more likely, it was facing the reality of "That will never be me".
But not for the reasons you might think.
Not because I can't write a decent post about dirt.
Not because I wish to be famous.
Not because my own house lacks life, reality or homeyness.
No, it stuck in my prairie hen craw as an image of someone I will never be for one very clear reason...
Because if I for one second entertained the notion of not sweeping my floors for week we would be wading waist-deep in the "signs of life", my insanity would be very, very "real", and trust me there is nothing "homey" about traveling to the bathroom by snowshoe and having to break out a shovel to dig for your misplaced toothbrush.
So instead, to give you a glimpse of our daily living, I picked an area of our home that isn't quite as attractive to dirt and childish clutter as the kitchen floor. An area that doesn't get cleaned nearly as often as the thoroughfares, highways and dumping grounds of our home. An area I try (albeit unsuccessfully) to keep people from using as a walkway...
Inside the sofas.
Chock full of symbols and relics of our home life.
One Polly pocket.
One Barbie pot lid.
One mini skate board.
One bundle embroidery floss.
My sewing snips.
This one is in the den, daddy's space.
This is the quietest of our four lounging places.
It's squishy and warm.
It hugs you when you sit in it.
It gets used when the turkeys want to hang with us grown-ups.
We relax together.
Read books or our Bibles.
Also in the den.
They use this one the most for forts.
It's disassembled more than put together.
There's rarely a chance for things to stuck under the cushions.
That would require having the cushions where they belong.
Or knowing where the cushions even are at the moment.
One lone flip-flop.
One Archie comic book.
One lone sock.
One clean napkin.
In the living room.
This couch is "a hundered" years old.
It cost just $3 at an auction.
Just ask my 15 year old brother how protective I am of this thing.
He tried to walk on it once.
I fold laundry here.
The kids read comics while I work.
They watch out the big picture window for daddy to get home.
The dog steals unsuspecting footwear and camps out here while shredding his victims.
This flip-flop got away and hid deep in the sofa's safe-zone.
Pun totally intended.
One princess tiara.
Two plastic animals.
One Thomas train track
Another living room inhabitant.
The sleepover couch.
When your room gets dull... move to the roll-out! -- That's my hooligan's motto.
They roll it out.
Hide under it.
Fold their toys up in it.
Leave it all for me to clean up in the morning long after they ditched it in favor of climbing into bed with mommy and daddy.
But every now and then, I boot them out and sit on my vintage green-striped Craigslist find. I sit reading a magazine, idly stirring sugar into my coffee. Occasionally placing my steaming drink on a conveniently placed coaster while I flip through the pages of my current brain-candy, making plans for this project or that.
But that mostly only happens to the fantasy me.
The thing is, I'm a prairie hen.
And if you ask a chicken, she'll tell you...
We're busy birds and, plainly speaking, pretty moody when it comes to sitting and laying.
Flapping and Flopping in NE