I’m concerned that my maid has been kidnapped. Or that she’s dead. Or trapped under something heavy (my laundry?) and trying futilely to escape. She hasn’t shown up for work in 14 years.
Isn’t it always the way? I have a big showing (Lizzie Borden coming to visit) and instead of spending my functional awake time cleaning (functional on 4 hours sleep) I’m writing posts and surfing the Internet and giving my youngest fudge popsicles to drip wherever she chooses. Last I saw she was carrying a head of lettuce around. Nothing good can come from that.
We have successfully dirtied every last bowl and plate in the house. I know because they are piled in and around my kitchen sink. I could unload the dishwasher, but that would mean I’d have to put stuff away because there’s no room on the counter to stack the clean dishes. Laundry from our vacation is washed and dried and waiting patiently on the floor in front of the dryer. Soon I will decide that it is too wrinkly and dirty to fold and I will wash and dry it all again, and then leave it on the floor in front of the dryer. McDonald’s toys have reproduced and the hideous offspring litters my living room floor along with popsicle sticks, Fiber One cereal, and for whatever reason pull ups laid end to end from one edge of the couch and love seat to the other. The cat fur on the back of the couch is lush, but off-putting. The toilet bowl has signalled its need for cleaning by turning grey.
There are things to be done, people, but I don’t know how to quit you.