Dusty Mantels and Unmade Beds

I’m like 98.587% sure I’m sick.  I’m not calling it yet because I DO NOT WANT TO ADMIT DEFEAT to whatever this thing is that is making my throat feel like sandpaper every time I swallow.  Fuck this shit.  I’m not acknowledging its existence and maybe it will go away. If I ignore it, it can’t bother me right?  Right.  So carry on, will ya?  I’m fine.

I really really really feel like horse shit, though.


Most of the company from out of town has arrived now.  My sister will be here tomorrow and she’s staying with me.  That means I’ll be running around like a psycho making sure everything is in order and presentable.  Not that I don’t keep a clean house…..well, what’s your standard of clean?  We should talk about this.  I have a young boy, two fairly large dogs and a cat.  There’s a lot of living going on around here and it’s not always pretty.  I do keep the dishes and the clothes washed, though, and I vacuum pretty regularly.  I’m not the greatest at dusting or putting things away after I’ve used them.  I have 712 junk drawers and they’re all full.  I don’t alphabetize the cans in my pantry.  (I have a sister-in-law who does.)  My refrigerator sometimes resembles one you might stumble across at a frat house.  Being just the two of us here, there’s always leftovers that rarely get eaten.  I throw them out eventually but sometimes they get shoved to the back, like they’re hiding, and I forget they’re in there.  What else?  I don’t have a whole lot of junk everywhere but I do have a dedicated junk room.  That’s where Max’s old toddler bed is that I’m thinking of turning into a dog bed.  They have a whole couch to themselves now but it’s getting kind of raggedy and I want to replace it.  I’m thinking of getting another toddler bed, one for each of them, and painting their names across the headboard.  How fucking adorable, I know.  Also, I don’t make my bed everyday.  Horrors!  A fucking grown ass adult with an unmade bed.  What in the actual fuck.  Ok.  But listen.  Here’s the thing.  Who the fuck is going into my bedroom?  (I mean, clearly, you’re not.  I’d make it up the first time you saw it, though.  After that, I can’t make any promises.)  Look, it’s not like my bed is in the middle of the living room when a guest walks in.  It’s upstairs and down a hall.  No one is seeing that shit.  I’m not giving people tours of my home for fuck’s sake.  I do regularly wash the sheets, so don’t worry.  I really like things that smell good.  I’m all about scents.  I love linen sprays and room sprays and candles and all that predictable girlie shit.  And incense occasionally.  Depends on my mood. 

Don’t worry, it’s really not so awful around here.  I just have other things to think about other than the dust on my mantel on any given day.  I bet there won’t be a speck of dust to be found anywhere tomorrow, though.  Watch.

Anyway, I have to go socialize now.   Actually, they all went out to eat but will be back soon.  I didn’t feel like going.  I really am sick.  Blah.  Come tuck me into my unmade bed and read me a story.  But not one of your sexy ones, dammit.  I am in no condition to jump your bones at the moment.

P.S.  Is it mantel or mantle?  It’s mantel, right??

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