Today

I haven't forgotten about this blog, nor its literally tens of readers. (Hi, guys! How's it going?)

Rather, I have been paralyzed with uncertainty. What is Fifties in the Future? What does it mean? How can I possibly post when I haven't even come close to my housekeeping goals? How can I post when my life is more like I Love Lucy (assuming Lucy were swamped with children and pets, suffering from domestic ennui, and not getting anywhere like enough sleep), and less like Leave it to Beaver?

Then it hit me.

This is my blog. I can post whatever I damn well want.

Shocking, right?

With that in mind, what is Fifties in the Future? Oh, I am so glad you asked, because I'm about to tell you.

Fifties in the Future is where lofty housekeeping goals collide with sleep deprivation. It's where nearly Great Depression-levels of thrift hold hands with disposable sandwich bags. It's where I can obsess about gluten in only the way a celiac parent can, and dream about French pastry. It's where I'm allowed to bribe myself with chocolate for the housework (I just finished a square earned for hitting inbox zero with the dishes), and post tips on how to butcher a whole hog leg on your kitchen counter.

It's a place for me to be me, in all my messy and imperfect glory.

So holla, everyone. I am The Housewife. Welcome to Fifties in the Future.