She hurts my feelings.
Ok, maybe not.
Ok, not.
Who has feelings anymore when it comes to a clean messy house?
When I picked up the kids I stood and looked at your room and really hated you were going to come home to that, but I was in such a hurry, she says.
Good thing she's seen it worse. Ok, maybe not. But just as bad.
How does this happen? I mutter later, down on all fours digging something sticky out of the rug. I keep muttering, something close to profanity but far enough away to pat myself on the back later, as I search, belly down, for the game pieces under the sofa. Not there. Probably didn't survive, I spit out, dust bunnies ate 'em.
If I were a DVD this is not a moment I would hit the pause button.
Fast forward, baby, fast forward.
Now that I've whined to the point of losing 99% of my three readers, here's something I'd like to say -
Did you know June Cleaver died? She lived a long life. May she rest in peace.
But - did you ever see her down on her knees talking to dust bunnies or aging ten years jabbing a knife into something crusty on the rug?
Now that I've whined to the point of losing 99% of my three readers, here's something I'd like to say -
Did you know June Cleaver died? She lived a long life. May she rest in peace.
But - did you ever see her down on her knees talking to dust bunnies or aging ten years jabbing a knife into something crusty on the rug?
Did her friend ever come over and sadly shake head in pity for her?
I've come a long way, baby.
June Cleaver, eat my dust - bunnies that is.
I've come a long way, baby.
June Cleaver, eat my dust - bunnies that is.
