Hey Jakey,

Just title this post "Momma's Bathroom: Triumph of the Spirit."

Despite the murkiness of the above photo, the bathroom pictured is as clean and pure as the driven snow. Just finished it now at 11:30 at night.

I had all sorts of grand plans this weekend. I was going to clean my bathroom. I was going to bake a pie. I was going to dig up the lavender in the back yard and transplant it into the side yard to overwinter. I was going to, well -- you get the idea.

Sunday came and went, and all of a sudden its Sunday night. Late Sunday night, post-Desperate Housewives and Gray's Anatomy. And of course I've done nothing on my to-do list. Too late to bake a pie or to dig up the back yard. So I decide to clean my bathroom.

But not without starting a fight with your daddy first.

Jakey, your daddy and I have all sorts of fights. Kinda like there's all sorts of terror alert levels, we have argument alert levels. Tonight was kind of a lukewarm Code Yellow. Neither of our hearts was really in it. We half-heartedly argued about how messy the house is, how I work all the time and expect a level of -- I dunno -- some kind of orderliness when I get home. Blah, blah, blah. Husbands and wives have had this argument for time out of mind. It ended when I started getting a wee bit teary (drama queen, I know...), and saying how out-of-control my life has become: I'm worried about you, I'm worried about my job, my finances are a mess, AND... my house is a disaster. To your daddy's credit, afterwards, he went and wiped down the kitchen counter and fed Bernice. Bless his crooked little heart.

Poor Man's Labor Cordelia's Dad

When I was a young man I was a rover
nothing would satisfy me but a wife.
Soon as I reached the age of 20
weary was I of a single life.

The very first year that I was married
out of her company I could not stay.
Her voice was sweet as the lark or the linnet
or a nightingale at the break of day.

Now she's fairly old and demeaning
Now she's fairly changed her tune.
Mothing but scolding comes from her mouth
and the poor man's labor is never done.

The very first year that we were married
scarce could I get one half hour's sleep.
With her two heels she rubbed my shins
says, "Husband dear put down your feet."

The baby cried, she bitterly scolded
down for the door I was forced to run.
Without trousers, a wig or a waistcoat
the poor man's labor's never done.

I went up to the top of the hill for
to view my sheep that had all gone astray.
When I came back she was lying in the bed
at 12 o'clock on a winter's day.

When I came back all wet and weary,
weary and wet now where could I run.
She was lying in the bed, the fire on beside her
she said, "Young man put the kettle on."

l'll go o'er to my aged mother
she'll be sitting all alone.
She says there's plenty of young women to be had now
why should I be tied to one.

Oh young man what it is to marry
though they'll grief you evermore.
Death oh death come take my wife
and then my trouble will be o'er.

Just kidding, son. Love you, sleep tight.