I like to keep a clean house. Keep in mind my version of a ‘clean house’ is a loose definition. Very loose. This means that on the weekends I put my slaves kids to work to clean the bathrooms, their rooms, dust the furniture and vacuum while I sit on my computer and blog.

Heh heh.

The problem with my housekeepers is well, they suck. But for the rate they get paid (vast quantities of dried cereal and the odd piece of fresh fruit) I really can’t complain.

So I bite my tongue, tell them they did a half decent job and then take to redoing the mess they made while they are at school. I don’t want to discourage them by telling them cleaning means more than just moving the piles of dirt from one location to another.

On Monday, I rolled up my sleeves and got down to the dirty business of housework. I wouldn’t want my husband to know how we actually live in a pigsty while he’s gone. He’s coming home in a few days. Which means I have to clean like a madwoman before his arrival in order to keep up with this facade so he won’t utter words like ‘get a job’ or ‘earn your keep, woman.’

Which was exactly what I was doing on Monday instead of sitting here tethered to my computer, surfing the net and reading the antics of my beloved fellow bloggers.

You can imagine just how much cleaning I actually got accomplished when I sat down to take a five minute break to check my email and found a lovely note from a good pal of mine, MotherBumper informing me I had won a BLOGGIE.

My laundry is still not done. Oh well. Frac likes going commando anyways.

I was more than a little excited. And grateful. And thrilled. I immediately had to tell my husband who likes to think my blogging is nothing more than escape from my dreary existence as an over-educated, bored, stay at home mom who is stuck in the pits of grieving hell and is too damn lazy to get off her arse and try and put her God given talents to good use. By good use I mean income earning ways.

But the bastard love of my life wasn’t answering his phone. Must be because he was um, working. So I decided to send him an email because surely he would get that message before remembering to check his voicemail.

He of course, was thrilled for me. In a ‘how much money did you win?’ type of way.

Um, none. But the accolades is what counts. And the thrill of victory. The mere knowledge that enough people thought of this little ole blog and voted for me is more than enough to compensate and thrill me to the core.

I’m easy like that.

I imagined how fabulous it would be to tell my kids while wearing a fancy gown, but when I tried on my prom dress from my teenage years I was more than a little horrified to discover my boobs have outgrown it. In an obscene way.

So I had to scrap that idea.

But I couldn’t wait for the kids to get home to share the news with them. I needed something tangible in my hand to drive the point (that they’re mother is the computer geek they feared) home for them.

So I searched the house high and low and decided on one of my son’s sports trophies. Perfect. Now I had a prop to use when I made them listen to my Oscar worthy acceptance speech.

Just know that I’d kiss each and every one of you who voted for me if I didn’t think I wouldn’t get slapped with a restraining order and land in the clink.

I may have sat my children down and used my new found Bloggie as an example of what a person can do if they believe in themselves and post pictures of their breasts on the internet.

My son just wanted me to put his damn trophy down before I accidentally broke it in my fit of excitement.

I may have gone overboard with my shiny gold statue representing all the bloggy love I was feeling for everyone who voted for me.

I had to get down when my daughter threatened to lock me in my room for jumping on the furniture. House rules and all.

I do want to set a responsible example for good behaviour for my offspring. I take that to mean racing around the house with my fake trophy while shouting out the names of every damn blogger I could think of. That and holding my son’s trophy high above my head while he jumped and tried to retrieve it from his freakishly long-armed mother’s grasp, all the while making asking him,

“Who’s your momma now?”

The height of my maturity astounds even me.

Eventually, I calmed down. It was no easy feat. But the kids threatened to hide my mommy juice on me if I didn’t start to behave and that’s a threat I have to take seriously.

But just know, that all of your support and love have helped this momma remember how to laugh and tease her kids. Because it wasn’t too long ago I was wondering if I’d ever be able to see the sunlight again through my clouds of despair.

I really couldn’t have done it without all of you.

After my son finally grabbed his trophy and went to hide under his bed, I had to take to loving on my dog, Nixon, to help me celebrate.

I’m so filled with bloggie love right now. I even love the fact they’ve listed my blog as ‘Attack of the Redneck Monkey’.

They must have seen my monkey toes and how my legs look before I shave them annually.

It’s an easy mistake to make.

Heh. Heh.