Hello! I’m tired, and I appear to have contracted a vicious form of heartburn from hell. How one manages to get heartburn from a bland dinner of toast and milk, I’ll never know, but I’m 99% sure that those of you reading this blog don’t want to hear about all my bodily functions gone awry. So let me talk about something else that’s gone awry: Housework, or a lack thereof.
Up until an hour or so ago, there was a pile of laundry at the foot of our stairs that was large enough to rival the Washington Monument. It had been sitting there blocking the door to the coat closet for, oh, about a week. Any time I wanted to get up or down the stairs, I’d have to do this strange semi-acrobatic swinging leap over the gargantuan pile of shirts, towels, and bedsheets. This morning made for a particularly fun stunt, as I tried to both clear Laundry Mountain AND navigate around the fresh pile of cat vomit on the second stair riser–thanks, Nala! At least she didn’t vomit in the clothes, right?
But back to the laundry. Need a clean shirt? Here’s a shovel, start digging. There’s a reason we don’t buy clothes that wrinkle easily. Frankly, I’m just proud of myself for doing that much laundry–getting it up three flights of stairs from the basement to the bedroom is the icing on the cake. Let’s just say I was leaving it there because I wanted to admire my handiwork, acrobatic leaps and all.
Or how about this: until recently, our kitchen had come to resemble the scene of a natural disaster. Dishes, dishes, dishes–overflowing from the sink, onto the counters, the oven, and basically every available surface except, you know, in the cupboards where they belong. For a while I was forced to prepare my morning toast while holding the toaster in one hand and the butter knife in the other. I wish I could say the dishes in question were as clean as the laundry, but then I’d be lying. No, these dishes were far from clean. The kitchen had begun to smell like an old wet towel, and it wouldn’t surprise me if we were growing some alien species of mold in the sink.
Next on the list, we have the eight giant bags of bottles laying on the back porch, waiting patiently for someone to take them to the recycling center. I’m pretty sure the homeowner’s association wouldn’t approve. And I won’t tell you where the garbage bag of old cat litter currently resides (certainly not in the garbage can, there’s no room left, hah-hah), because then you’d never come to my house and sit down on our one lonely plastic porch chair. *ahem*
This basically sums up the condition of our lives right now. Chaotic. Somewhat uncomfortable. A bit smelly. But what I’m coming to realize is, this is a situation we’re going to find ourselves in more and more often in the coming months, years, and probably even decades. I need to become OK with that, or else I’ll drive myself crazy trying to fight it. Life is messy.
So here’s to airing our dirty laundry, even when it’s clean. Surely I’m not the only person whose home is not the pristine vision of perfection that I (scramble to) make it out to be when company (or Mom–hi Mom!) comes to visit. And I can only hope that when our baby is born, DHS doesn’t catch wind of this entry and come knocking on our door when we’re in the midst of Laundry Mountain and Alien Sink Mold: The Sequel.
Thankfully I speak in the past tense, because my wonderful husband tackled both the kitchen and the laundry pile while I was enjoying my evening walk. But I document it here to prove a point! Although now the raging heartburn and exhaustion has made me forget what my point might have been… maybe I didn’t have one, except to say, “Hi. See why I’m not blogging much? Forgive me.”