RAM, housefrauwery, and miscellaneous obscenity

Got a gig of RAM put in my laptop yesterday and enjoying my superfast, non-kernal-panicky computer. (I tried feeding it some Klonopin at first, but it just gunked up the keyboard. Which leads me to the obvious question: where can I get some new RAM?)

In other RAM news, Max bought himself a gig for his mobile phone. "Why do you need a gig of RAM for your freakin' mobile phone?" asks Amy, whose brain usually refuses to even register the fact that her phone is ringing ("What's that noise?" asked my mom the other day. "Oh, I guess it must be my phone," said I. And no, vibrate doesn't help much either. To get me to pay attention to my phone, I told Max, you will probably have to shove it up my ass. And then I am unlikely to extract it in time to actually answer a call. And, since I don't check voicemail, you may as well not bother. And even if I do pick up the phone in time, the chances are slim that I've remembered to charge it, so it'll probably cut out before you've told me what you called for. ). Back to Max's RAM, though. Turns out he needs it to keep photos and tinny-sounding music on the phone. "It was only fifteen bucks," he said defensively.

On to hausfrauwery:

This morning Salon's Broadsheet directed me to www.cleaninghunk.com, which is an extended ad for some fake-piney kitchen and bathroom cleaner. You choose your hot guy, his music, and his outfit, and he cleans a kitchen or a bathroom while you watch. It's clever and addictive, and if I were inclined to buy fake-piney cleaners, I'd certainly end up buying that one. Though the fact that I'm amused by such a thing makes me feel disturbingly housewifey; next thing you know, I'll be reading Erma Bombeck and laughing hysterically "Ohmigod, that's so true!"

Actually, I've already fallen into the dark heart of modern housewifery with an email subscription to flylady. Flylady is the dominatrix of domestic chores. She floods my inbox with exhortations to shine my sink, do the laundry, check my calendar, and floss my teeth. Kelly, her sidekick, tells me things like "Today it's time to vacuum the lint out of your dryer's exhaust pipe." Any second now I will get an email from Flylady asking where the hell my shoes are, because if I'm not wearing shoes, I'm not getting my housework done. "Screw you, flylady," I think, as I am not currently wearing my shoes. Yet even when I'm feeling rebellious, the truth is that I crave being dominated by Flylady and Kelly. I do think my teeth need flossing, my laundry needs doing, and my dryer vent needs cleaning. I like offloading the thinking about what housework I ought to do, and when, to someone else. It also makes it easy to offload chores to Max too. "Flylady said we needed to vacuum under the bed today." Max does the vacuuming in the house. Okay, says Max, and vacuums under the bed.

So actually I have my own cleaning hunk. Except somehow, when Max is cleaning, there's a four-year-old grabbing onto him, I'm nursing a baby and trying to put the laundry in the dryer, and the phone is ringing. So it's not like I usually have the time or inclination to get lascivious about him, shirtless, vacuuming with Django playing in the background. The house the online cleaning hunk cleans seems suspiciously childless. I suppose that's some of its appeal. On the not-appealing side, it also looks suspiciously like a McMansion. Wouldn't McMansion owners just have a member of the Brazilian cleaning cartel do the scrubbing?

Right, my brain is all over the place, just like a frazzled hausfrau's brain should be. Flylady also sends me obnoxious testimonials about how awesome she is, many of which thank God for her existence. Every time I read one of these (and yes, Internets, I do read them. Like I said, Internets, I'm just one step away from a subscription to Family Circle.) I consider sending my own "your program works even for Godless Atheists like myself" testimonial, to see if it gets sent around. Wait, am I an atheist, or just an agnostic? Or am I having some temporal lobe malfunction and believing in God this month? Who can keep track? Flylady tells me I can do anything for just 15 minutes at a time, and that I should stop wasting all my time at the computer reading testimonials about how great her feather dusters are. Maybe Flylady is God.

Apparently everyone else already knew about flylady, as at least 2 friends of mine have said "oh yeah, flylady" when I mentioned, with shame, that it turns out that I like being dominated over housework. Both these friends are already over their flylady phase. Where have I been the last few years, Internets? I only saw Britney's crotch shots a couple of days ago, when I was searching for a picture of her shaved head. (Unsurprisingly, the top links on a Google search of "Britney shaved head photo" are not photos of Britney's shaved head.)

Oops, I feel some buzzing in my ass. Is that my phone, or did the cleaning hunk bring some extra tools with him? Either way, guess I better sign off, Internets. TTFN, suckas.