The Dirt on My Floors

So, I am a paradox. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, shoved under the sofa in my filthy dirty disgusting house. I come home and take off my shoes and little bits of what can only be child produced debris stick to my feet and down right piss me off. I truly hate a dirty house. I am deeply in love with clean houses. Clean houses FEEL good. The energy flows better and there are no pockets of bad chi. But me? I HATE to clean. Hate it. Will put it off until after the Rapture, because maybe Jesus is a big hearted kind of guy and will just take me to paradise (which I am secretly hoping is in Bora Bora) even though my house is dirty.

*Scoff*

So, I get home yesterday and then Honey gets home just a little while after and I am whining. Yes, me. Not the kids. Me. The house is dirty. There are Gerber Puffies stuck to my foot. EEEEeeewwwahhhh Idon'tlikeit! So, my tired husband who just worked really hard at his new job and drove an hour home to be with his adoring wife and sons, whips out the hard floor vac and do you know the first thought in my mind? "Oh. I forgot we had that." So then I proceed to undermine his efforts in every thinkable way. "I can't talk to you when that thing is on." "Come feed the baby for me." "Didn't you miss me? Give me some love."

In the end, I don't want to clean the house. I don't want Honey to clean the house because I feel guilty that I am not cleaning the house. I do not want a maid to clean the house because a.) they are expensive and b.) the last one stole from us. (A thousand curses on you, evildoer!) I guess I want some magical fairy to come clean the house because Goddess forbid anyone in my family who might have contributed to said mess actually clean it up.

Sigh. Didn't know I was so annoying, did you?