Last night, I made a valiant attempt to go to bed early. So, naturally, I started vacuuming at 9:35 p.m. This is not the first time this has happened. Between my consistently late if equally unplanned chore hours and the fact that I occasionally land like an elephant after sliding down my banister*, my neighbors (especially the downstairs one; sorry, Alyssa) must hate me.
Mind you, I didn’t mean to still be cleaning my apartment 45 minutes later, but, like all good children, I’m turning into my mother. I used to hate seeing the Electrolux come out in lieu of a dustpan when I was a kid, because no matter how exasperatedly she promised that she was just using it to pick up that particular pile of dirt, about 20 minutes later Mom would be halfway down the hall and nearly in the bedrooms with the vacuum still WHOOOOOOOOing like a jet engine that couldn’t quite take off.
I get it now. It’s just one pile of dried mud, and then you notice the cat litter stuck along the baseboards, and then the floof of cat hair in the carpet, and after that the unsorted papers on the counter and goodness the floor around the commode has gathered quite the audience of hair and toilet paper dust, and by the time 10:15 rolls around I’m in my bathroom scrubbing gooey soap scum off the back of the faucet while I consider the state of the mirror. I also pulled Cousin It out of the drain using a barbed piece of yellow plastic, but that’s a description for another day.
Speaking of derailed plans, I will not be finishing a picture book for the second spring running. I kept waiting for the Spirit to move me, and He did not.
My Aunt and I found a way to amuse ourselves while my Uncle booked their hotel using the computer on the upper level of the loft, listening to us cackle like witches and undoubtedly wondering what was wrong with us.
Posted by Andrea Schultz on Thursday, May 2, 2019