I write this from the confines of my basement prison where I retreated hastily upon hearing the tell-tale turn of the key in my front door.
She steps inside and regards me with equal parts disgust and pity. We chit-chat as we are friendly from being in the same neighborhood but then she grabs the vacuum and the cleaning solution.
My cue to vacate the premises.
I don’t know how to negotiate this socially. I feel as though I should be grabbing a mop and destroying the filth and dirt, MY DIRT, with her.
Making the leap, I retire to the downstairs to stew in class conscious guilt.
I’m covered in it.
I don’t know if this image of the cowering slob paints an accurate portrait of me but it’s pretty fucking close.
Now is the time that I wish for normal coping skills like everyone else who gets their house scrubbed once every two weeks but I can’t let go of the shame.
Nothing is more painful to endure than what I imagine is silent judging and the passive battle of wills that determines just how high the mound of tampon applicators in the bathroom trash can get before I cave and empty it myself sparing her that indignity.
This is made all the worse because in college I took a job cleaning hotel rooms and I used to damn morons like myself to eternal hellfire for shit like that.
How far can I push this before she throws down and pulls a Network screaming “im mad as hell and i’m not going to take it anymore!”
I really don’t know what to say about the tampon trash heap as it stands as a cardboard applicator monument and representation of all my failures on the domestic front, showcasing my inadequacies and inherent lazy nature.
In a savagely hilarious twist of fate I find myself a kept woman requiring the services of a scullery maid and several able-bodied ladies in waiting to lace my bone crushing corset except I lack the pedigree and sense of entitlement to pull it off.
Do you fret this much while your house is being cleaned?