June

I received the sad news that June Cleaver had recently passed away. Her real life son (not the Beav) reported that she was just as wonderful a mom in the nonfictional world. Good on her.


But, it got me to thinking - - what the hell time in the morning do you think that June Cleaver needed to get up? I'm figuring 3 a.m. She had to get all gussied up, cute dress, stockings (with garter), full on make-up, hair fixin (cause even though she likely had a weekly set and comb, there's not enough toilet paper and bobby pins in the world to ensure that her 3 hours of sleep did not muss that cute little do), she needed to put on pumps and pearls and then head down stairs to make sure that she affixed her darling little apron, rustled up an honest to goodness kick-butt breakfast for her men and get the table set - - all with a joyful half smile on her face as in, "Damn I love this!"



I had dinner on Sunday night with some friends from Tokyo - the kinds of friends where you haven't seen them in a long time and yet within moments you are sharing the most intimate details in your life as if no time had passed. I actually fist bumped one of them when she shared with me that her daily goal is to just make sure she takes a shower before her husband gets home and that staying in her jammies until 2:00 happens more days than not. I was so amazingly relieved to know that I am not alone.



June Cleaver? Hardly. I'm more like - - well, come to think of it, there is no fictional character who portrays me. I briefly considered the domestic goddess of Roseanne - but I couldn't fully embrace it.



In the olden days, when I wore a suit to work (and pantyhose and pumps), I think I had a decent reputation as the kind of person who got. shit. done. Give me a project and I could beat the living daylights out of it. I had charts, I had plans, I had teams of people willing to help me get. it. done. I even managed to put on lipstick now and again while I was doing it. Now I can make it all the way to 3:00 when it's time to pick up the boys and I can't seem to get anything finished.



And let's talk about the suit and the pumps. June...now June always looked fabulous. She had a whole boat load of dresses with petticoats and paper thin stockings in the ultimate nude color. She had matching gloves and darling hats and even when the Beav pulled some messy stunt, the most mussed up she might get was a darling little smug of something on her perfectly powdered face. Me? Well, on the days when I do manage to get out of my jammies before I leave to pick the boys up from school - my "uniform" consists of an astoundingly large collection of black t-shirts. I got them long sleeved, I got them short sleeved, I got them with v-necks and crew necks. George the Elder has threatened bodily harm should I buy any more. I also have about 1 gazillion pairs of cute black flats. They are my go to shoes. Pumps? fuggedaboutit....



And lately? Well, I have a certain weird pride about keeping my house spotless. I have been teased by various friends and family regarding my pseudo "problems" in this area. I know beyond fact that my sister once came to visit and got great joy out of moving throw pillows out of their assigned positions just to see how long it would take until I moved them back to where they belong. Now? Well, my downstairs "guest bathroom" has some kind of brown bids adhered to the sink. They've been there for several days and I just can't seem to get there. Did one of the boys spit in there? Did they just grow there since it's been a few weeks since it's been cleaned? My grey living room carpet is actually a shade of white that frighteningly matches the color of my dog. I can write my name (and those of all the signers of the Declaration of Independence) on various dust laden surfaces of my home.

So, June Cleaver RIP. Obviously you set a bar that I am unable to jump over. But, you did it looking stunning and sweet and composed. You are making me crazy.

But now I need to run. I've a black t-shirt to don and things to do. I won't get them done, but I'll give it a whirl. Even if I'm not whirling in a skirt :)