It happened again. When will I ever learn?
This is how it usually goes: I accidentally spill some jam on the floor, so I bend over to wipe it up and while I’m down there, I notice all the other little messes I’ve been ignoring. So then I’m down on all fours with a bowl of sudsy water. On my way back up, I see that the cabinets look suddenly smeary compared to the shiny new floor, so I spend an hour rubbing the walls and buffing the faceplates of the light switches and when I stop for a glass of water, I notice the ghastly truth inside my refrigerator, and so on, etcetera, until I lie panting on the floor in a pool of sweat, back spasming with the aftershocks. (I will never, ever buy jam again.)
Or this: I find one new throw pillow for the sofa. Then I have to move the art on the walls because the color of the pillow throws everything off. Then I have to repaint the wall to cover the old nail holes. Then I have an inexplicable urge to rearrange all the furniture. I hate that chair; it’s old and shabby and I can’t stand it a minute longer. I drag it outside and leave it on the curb, shuffle back inside where the walls become oppressive. I need a new house. We must move immediately. (Husband uses his wife-whispering skills to talk me off the ledge.)
So I did it again. I won’t even waste breath explaining how I got here. Do you know how a room has to get ten times messier before it can get clean? Well, that’s what my entire house looks like right now. Like the garbage truck made a delivery. Like someone dropped a bomb. Somebody should drop a bomb to clean up this freaking mess.
Moral of the story: ______________________________________ (fill in the blank. I’m too busy scrubbing toilets to write anything meaningful.)