Erma Bombeck is My Hero

Good morning, blogger addicts, and welcome.

I have no agenda to share, no cause to trumpet, and no specific goal, so I hope you aren't expecting one. Every day I have an inner monologue running around muttering to me, and I decided to beat back the demons by typing my musings. Fair warning, it all sounds a lot more clever and a lot less psychotic inside my head.

There have been a lot of changes in my life over the past 3 years, and recently I have come to find new respect for Erma Bombeck (may she rest in peace, finally with a clean closet, a working septic tank, and a waistline that respects spaghetti without going overboard). Erma had it right all along. We miss you, lady.

I think in today's crazy mixed up world, I could start a Cult of Erma Bombeck, and it would probably catch on pretty well. The woman knew a lot of truth. I honestly don't remember a whole lot about her books (but I will be re-reading them very soon and gaining a new perspective and new wisdom, I'm sure). What I remember from reading her books as a child and young adult is that she made my father laugh out loud, her kids thought she was stupid, her house was never up to snuff, and she always felt one step behind and never quite as good. Erma, I hear ya.

She talked about her bathrobe with baby spit, when the baby was 20. Every time I find myself in the grocery store with those telltale white streaks on my shoulder (the baby is 2), I wonder how many more years I will be finding them.

Erma struggled with her weight book after book. She did TV exercises programs with fit and trim trainers that claimed to have found the perfect diet in spaghetti. I bought a Wii Fit, and yesterday it told me I was *obese* and my "Wii Fit Age" was 47. I'm only 36. I think it is a conspiracy. With the same *obese* Body Mass Index, my dear husband has a Wii Fit Age of 42. Erma was right -- even electronic exercise equipment treats men more gently than women.

Erma had a dog to give her grief. I have 3 cats that fight over food, whose litter box is whose, and who has the right to sleep on the bed. They shed, puke up hairballs, and escape from the house on a daily basis. If it weren't for them, I'd be the best housekeeper on the planet. Oh, wait. I'm living in a dream world again ... in that fantasy world where clutter doesn't replicate, laundry stays done, and I never married a "collector."

Yes ... a collector. Some of you are giggling. We have a Star Wars model collection, Star Trek action figures in the original boxes, an entire closet full of comic books, and more Wild Turkey Whiskey Decanturs then you can possibly imagine. Some of them even still have whiskey in them. Add that to the Avon duck collection and the occasional canister of Eagle Rare, and I don't have any room for my 15 bookshelves worth of paper and hardcover books.

Oh, yes. Moving from the workforce to the homeforce has opened my eyes. Today the 2 year old wants to play with the cat's toys instead of his own. The one cup coffee pot is malfunctioning, asking me again to "descale". The cats are sending strange sounds down through the baby monitor from upstairs. The laundry is breeding on the floor, something is growing in the fridge, and I still have 6 piles of stuff from my aborted attempt to practice the "clean sweep" method of cleaning on my bedroom closet ... last October. I recently found a box of newspapers we moved from the last house ... in 2002 ... so my darling husband could make newspaper logs for the fireplace.

Erma, you were so right. It IS much easier to clean out the closet of your spouse than your own.

Oh, Erma. We miss ya so. What would you make of the blogging world, the Wii Fit, and internet shopping? We can only wonder and marvel at the deep and enduring truths in your musings.