Have you ever sat bolt upright after awakening from a prolonged daze only to exclaim in horror that you had no idea what the fuck was going on these past few weeks and aghast at the sorry state of all that surrounds you?
Besides, if you are able to ignore the previous run on sentence that is almost blinding in its blatant disregard of all rules of writing well, everything else seems to be on the upswing, right?
Okay, make that two poorly thought out sentences that should really be cast right out and destroyed.
Shall we start again?
I’m not sure if it was the dog sledding, the brisk mountain air or the number of times my ears popped loudly from the altitude during the three-hour trip but somewhere along the way I got my “snap out of it” crack across the face from my imaginary Moonstruck character.
There is some debate among family and friends as to HOW effective this jolt actually was as my house is still in shambles and my kids look a little scruffy but everyone appears to be well fed and there are still four walls and a roof .
I call that victory.
I heart you, but please don't yell at us.
The omnipotent and martyrific powers of Jesus, the vicious cutting tongue of Susie Green and the cleaning prowess of Joan Crawford on speed (“I’m not angry at you, I’M ANGRY AT THE DIRT!) these are all attributes my mother possesses in spades. Here’s the problem. She’s downstairs right now, potentially snowed in for the night (her WORST nightmare) at my house and we didn’t get a chance at so much as a surface clean before this happened.
For those of you who don’t know mom here are a few gems dropped through the last few years.
“I am NOT using that bathroom, where is your bleach?”
“Is it really that hard to have toilet paper in every bathroom?”
“This is a disgrace!”
“What is that SMELL?”
“I don’t know how you can stand to live like this.”
“No, I can’t sit until this kitchen is spotless and all the dishes are put away”
“I’d rather just go home and eat, thanks”
Long story short. Our house gives her cold sweats, my lack of cleaning skills horrifies her, and my inability to cook makes her hang her head in shame. It is an absolute mystery to her (and to many others) how I could have turned out so undomestic when she EXCELLED in this area at all times. While I enjoy the pristine bathrooms and kitchen areas in her house, I cower in fear when we visit as they soon will be destroyed by my agents of chaos. Wishing I could manage to master her bed making rituals where quarters spring skyward off firm mattresses with sheets ending in hospital corners, sometimes makes a gal feel inadequate. Especially now that the last fitted sheet just went into the washing machine and I am left with few options.
So now we scramble. I heard my husband discreetly make his way up to the potential “guest” bedroom and whip out the vacuum to rid it of dog hair and lint. Then for good measure he even did the hallway. Her face has gone from receptive and jovial to perpetual grimace with clenched jaw as the long hours with the kids wear her down and their demands begin to hurt her ears. We will prepare for the aggravation caused by dry air and bad pillows and brace ourselves for the rant regarding the DC governments inability to get the roads clear in time for her to get home to mentally prepare for work on Monday.
Pray for us.