July 13, 2011

I Know That's Not Where I Left My Toilet Brush. (Or: Home Again, Home Again)

Does anybody else feel compelled to add "jiggity jig jig" to that, or is it just me?

Ooh-kay. Just me then.

[Awkward pause]

We got back from Pennsylvania at one o'clock yesterday morning. I had my days mixed up, I was tired, and I'm pretty sure my right eye had just given up in despair and stopped working.

My living room looked like this:

And that wasn't even the half of it.

So, needless to say, I sat down and got myself caught up on all the seventy-two million blogs I've been missing.

Instead of cleaning. Instead of laundry.

Instead of sleeping, for crying out loud.

I might have a problem.

The essentials - eventually - got done. The cleaning didn't, but that's not because it wasn't essential. It's because of this:

When my mom calls herself a jerk in writing, you know something's up.

Picture me, contact not yet in, eye still a little pink, just barely awake, stumbling around the house trying to find stuff we packed randomly, and seeing this:

I know that's not where I left my toilet brush.

Nope. It's where my mom left the toilet brush. Or possibly her (and my) dear friend E, who insisted on sneaking into our house with her for some guerrilla cleaning while we were gone.

I will never not be excited about this.