You NEED Me On That Wall

I finally got the kitchen of my dreams and Mr. says to me, he says, “We may be needed elsewhere.”
I know “we” means HE, because my skill set is best suited to a vegetative state.

Lemme back up…

Remember me? I’m Housewife Savant.
I used to have a blog here.
You know, a weblog; articles written and posted in chronological order, often with photos, links to other articles, and reader comments.
A blog; capiche?

IT WAS RIGHT! HERE!

I blogged with intensity. I blogged with compassion.

I blogged with bloggy excellence.
My posts were ripe with wit and sarcasm.
I left my 2.6 faithful readers laughing and crying at the same time.

Like a blogasm.

Now do you remember me?

I had a following.
We had banter, my people and I.
They left such comments as:
My love for you continues to grow.
You have become the fiber of my soul, the very reason for my existence.
I never thought I had the capacity to love anybody as much as I love you.

We were like family, minus the drinking and the stabbing, of course.

Remember me?

I’m Kel, and you’re glad you’re here.
If you’re new; it’s nice to meet me.

Merry Christmas!

You can say “Happy Holidays” if you want.

You can celebrate Kwanza, or Solstice, Festivus, or Card Playing Day for all I care.

Happy [it], from me to you.

I’m ex-fundie, and I’m not about to force the Christmas issue.
As a matter of fact, I’m all about the not forcing of issues these days, despite the fact that I'm highly intelligent and I know what's best for you.

I don’t care if you say the “C” word.

No sir.

I’m ex-fundie, and I don’t believe ranting and raving is ever going to pique your interest in spiritual matters.
No sir.

I’m a born-again Christian.
I believe what God says in His word.
I’m a liberated believer and I will NOT insist that you do what I do.

I’m Kel, and you’re glad you’re here.
You probably want to get to know me. Most people do.

I’m more fun than a sack of confused weasels.

I’m not just amusing. I’m knowledgeable.
I Googled “The Smartest Woman in the Universe” and I got my own blog.

I mocked my way through an online course at the Redneck Academy of Hillbilly KnowHow and I got an “A”.
That settles it: I’m a Confirmed Genius.

My husband is smart too. He’s handsome, and he’s built like Daniel Craig.
He’s crazy about me.

We have a close, loving family.
We’ve got three marvelous, affectionate daughters and a wonderful son-in-law.

We have two amazing cats.

Should I mention that I’m gorgeous?
I have spectacular hair.

Aside from the aforementioned credits at Hillbilly U I’ve got a buttload of real education from a genuine college.
I have a lot of money and expensive things.
And I blog.

I live a Charmed Life, it’s true.

But you don’t want to be me.

I’m Super Fabulous, but you don’t want to be me.

Truth is; you can’t handle the truth.
You can’t handle being me.

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Dear Reader; I suffer.

I suffer because I live in the south.
Southern Illinois IS south, where south equals bass ackward living.

Effing hillbillies.

Lately I’ve been keenly aware of their constant and total stupidity.
Living in the south has lost its charm.
The bloom is off the rose, man.

No amount of fair weather can make up for what’s missing down here; common sense and decency.
Southerners are lazy.
Blame the warm weather. Blame malaria. Blame emancipation and the downfall of their economy.
Whatev, Gomer.

Southerners live like pigs and I am tired of the stupid.
I can’t run to the store without wanting to stab someone.
Blame me for that, cuz I’m smarter than everyone else and I know how to work a four way stop.
Blame me, cuz I don’t leave the house in pajamas.
Blame me, cuz I think rotten teeth, raging meth sores, three different-colored babies, four hickeys and a black eye say more than "You must be a hopeless romantic".

Blame me, cuz a house isn't supposed to have wheels, and the only stamps I use are for postage.

Southerners ARE the stereotype you see on television.
Imbecility is the norm.

Ignorant speech is customary.
Poverty is rampant, as are poor manners.

These people are lazy and dirty.

I'm not an intellectual. I don’t speak in King James English. We’re not rich (despite my previous claim to wealth. I lie.)

I’m not Emily Post, unless she’s known to talk with her mouth full and frequently interrupt.

I shower, almost daily. And I clean my house. Ish.

Thing is; I’m intolerant.

(It was part of my charm when I had a blog. Does it ring any bells yet?)

Did I mention that I’m a political conservative?

I didn’t support our current administration, but I’m pretty happy with one of his recent decisions.
Dick Durban finally convinced Obama that Illinois is the place to house those GITMO boys.
Mr.’s current facility was in the running, but they’ve chosen a location several hours north of here.

North.

[clouds part]

North.

[choir sings]

North.

[etc.]

Amidst Civilized Folk.

Thank God, cuz I’d rather have Khalid for a neighbor than to live next to the Clampetts.

I finally got the kitchen of my dreams and Mr. says to me, he says, “We may be needed elsewhere.”

I know “we” means HE, because my skill set is best suited to a vegetative state.

Even more ironic than deciding to move the same week we finally complete our 16-month renovation is the fact that I look Just Like the guy.
I’m Kel, and you’re glad you’re here.