Diane says I’m a Domestic Goddess. Bish‘ll like that. Biiish!

Bish: Mmmm.

Imshin: Diane says I’m a domestic goddess.

Bish: (ignores her, continues watching the Maccabi Tel Aviv – Hapoel Tel Aviv basketball derby).

Imshin: Biiish, listen to me, Diane wrote in her blog that I’m a domestic goddess.

Bish (without looking up from the TV screen): Oh, good. Does that mean you’ve unpacked the bag from the Mitzpe Ramon visit before last?

Imshin: Er, I think I’ll just do some ironing, seeing as I’m an undiscovered goddess. Do goddesses do the ironing? Don’t they have servants to do that for them. Like that loyal-to-the-death-while-kicked-in-the-face Paul Burrell fellow.

No lavender water though. Maybe I’ll pop into l’Occitane in Kikar Hamedina and see if I can buy some of the stuff without taking out a second mortgage. (Goes to get the ironing board. Discovers that the big bang last night was not the neighbors throwing things at each other but the ironing board toppling over, having been leant precariously against a low cupboard in the middle of the kitchen, deserted there during a previous fit of ironing motivation that did not reach fruition. Sets up ironing board only to discover that it is broken in the middle. She can iron but only if she holds the end up while she does.) Biiish!

Bish: Mmmm.

Imshin: The ironing board is broken.

Bish: Shshsh, not now.

Now my mother, there’s a domestic goddess. Unfortunately there were only enough domestic goddess genes to pass on to one daughter, and Our Sis got the lot.