Other than immersion in up-to-date media (which wasn't even that lacking in high-speed Moldova) I have proven myself to be a highly qualified personal assistant to my family.
I wake up with the twins, help make lunches and give fashion advice, condemn mini skirts and spagetti straps. They leave and I make a bunch of coffee, watch Joe and Mika interrupt each other, wait for dad to wake up. We chat, he leaves. I gather the laundry and start it. Make everyone's beds. Pick up shoes and straighten photo frames. I make some food and think – wouldn't it be nice to have a spot of pink wine?
Then I slap my own face for realizing I am a spinster AND a housewife at the same time.
I read Atlas Shrugged, newspaper and apply to jobs. I set up dates for myself to ambush the offices I just applied to. I pick out clothes that make me look sharper than I am (always Greta and Elise's clothes in some combination).
Before coming back to the house to feed and walk the dog, I stop for an espresso and read some poetry – this stems the tide of brainlessness and I imagine I am in London or on a balcony in Florence. I channel Elizabeth Barrett Browning who was fortunate enough to be rich, happily married and full of TB, thus proscribed a life of leisure in, yes, Florence.
Victorians had all the luck.
When I get home I literally put on a striped apron with salmon halterneck and waist line, and make dinner. The family usually gets home in stages and dinner is rarely hot for all four of them. Twins dissappear to find grants and scholarships to extremely good universities, and my parents and I watch rigorous amounts of sci-fi and drink the hoped for wine. Dad and I talk some more and we all go to sleep around midnight.
As cycles go, it's not bad. I'd make a first rate gospodina.
No further thoughts...
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