Becoming a cliche

I have to make this quick.

I need to get to the post office (yes, it still exists) to return the duvet cover that was sent to me. It is absolutely the wrong one. After a fight (sort of) with the guy who sent the ugly blue thing residing in a box on my bookshelf instead of the happy green one with embroidered flower that I wanted (I already have one of it, but it’s a full/queen and my husband’s step-grandmother gave us a king-size bed). It’s still on his website like he’s selling it, but he doesn’t have it, and he’s willing to pay part (only part) of the shipping for his mistake. But if I don’t send it back, I’m stuck with this thing I don’t want and no money back. Sigh.

That’s not why I’m a cliche, although it’s part of it.

I’m only working 12 hours a week. My freelance work has been dry for two months now, and it doesn’t show signs of returning anytime soon.

I live in the country where jobs are not exactly plentiful.

So I am becoming an insane volunteer who is lamenting the fact that she didn’t get her granola bars made today.

I am a housewife for all intents and purposes. Not a good one, but there’s not much else to call me. I spend my days doing laundry and trying to get hold of people who are working because that is what most people do.

If I start going out to lunch with a bunch of ladies, just shoot me.

The bedspread I got, but not the one I ordered

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