Taking a few minutes to de-frazzle before flying out the door.
I have to drive down to my son’s house to check on the dog — really, like right now — but I’ve been racing around since 5:30 this morning and must decompress before getting on the road.
Decided I’d better shovel out the house today, so after cleaning the pool and walking the dogs and running three loads of laundry we moved on to picking up the mountains of litter that collect like snowdrifts in the Funny Farm. In addition to developing the bad habit of sitting in front of the Internet all day long, I’ve also been cultivating my natural tendency to drop stuff wherever I happen to be at any given time.
Result: every table top, every countertop, every desk, every floor, every appliance is festooned with trash, junk, and piles of paper. It’s taken two hours to pick this place up, and now I have a four-inch-high stack of paperwork that has to be entered into Excel spreadsheets (apparently all the bills got paid, though, mirabilis!).
Meanwhile, in the course of babysitting the dog I see my son has inherited these genetic tendencies, in spades. Though he does pick up (most of the time…), the floors are ankle-deep in dog hair.
So I’m taking an old vacuum cleaner that resides in the garage down to his place, the better to gag it with wads of white dog hair. I’m sure not using my good one, and his weighs about eight tons. What is it about men that they think the best way to clean a house (repair a gadget, get from Point A to Point B, run a country) is the hardest way???
It’s been so long since I used the old Shark, I could NOT for the life of me remember how to get it apart to dump out the dust and dog hair that had accrued in its collector thingie. After much wrestling around, I finally spotted the right button. Annoying.
Even more annoying is that damn car. It’s a good-sized vehicle, in theory…but the back end behind the annoying stupidly designed seats isn’t large enough to hold a lightweight Shark vacuum cleaner. Holy sh!t. So I had to take everything out of the vehicle and perform a feat of origami to load the damn vacuum cleaner.
The seats have to remain up and the pillows I stuffed in there to keep my own dogs from breaking their necks or their legs or both have to be removed and stashed in the garage because my son has to ride in the back with his neurotic dog to keep the animal from having another panic-induced stroke. This, every time we have to schlep the dog to the vet. Which, as you can imagine, is frequently.
Well, it’s almost 10 a.m. If I’m gonna do this chore, I’d better get going. If he catches me cleaning his house, he won’t like it.