She Cooks. And She Cleans.

My brain is a vast wasteland at the moment.

It’s basically on autopilot, and the autopilot seems to have mapped out a course that takes me straight from the computer to the tub, on account of the small fact that MeMaw cleaned some house today, and my elderly bones are a bit achy.

I have nothing — just! nothing! — to report tonight, either, on account of the simple fact that my day consisted of getting out of bed, washing my face (and just my face), applying a fresh coat of mascara and Clinique blush (because what if someone stopped by?  With fresh mascara and blush, I can at least FAKE the thought that I showered!), and brushing my teeth.  And after all that, I kissed the boy good-bye, sent him out the door with Hubs, who was taking him to school, and then I ripped into the housework with gusto.

It was because Blondie was hollering out, “Call me!” from my Housecleaning Playlist on the iPod, and I had some motivation to drag out the Clorox and the vacuum cleaner.

And then, somewhere between Cyndi Lauper’s “She Bop” and Sawyer Brown’s “Betty’s Bein’ Bad,” I lost my momentum and had to play mind games with myself to keep going.  I gave myself a pep talk, and I eventually pushed through the burn and finished the lengthy list of chores up, just in time for the boy to come home from school and dump his backpack upside down on the dining room floor, in his quest to find a small notecard that he was missing.

A notecard which was in his coat pocket.

And NOT in his backpack at all.

And if there’s anything a woman who has scoured house until her hands are raw with the Clorox burns likes to see, it’s seventeen pounds of backpack debris scattered all over the freshly mopped floor.

And also?  I’d just like to give a shout-out to the inventor of the self-cleaning oven, because, in the midst of my labors today, I pushed two little buttons.

One was marked Self  Clean.

And the other was marked Start.

And that oven of mine locked herself down, fired up the engines, and went to town cleaning herself, while I began to envision what I could theoretically fit into the oven while the self-cleaning was happening.

Would a toilet fit?  A bathroom sink?  A load of whites?  The boy’s entire bedroom?

By the end of the day, my oven was my favorite household appliance, because she takes care of herself.  And she cleans.  And she makes me happy.

So happy, in fact, I named her today.

Lois.

Lois, the self-cleaning oven.  My new best friend, on account of the simple facts that Lois COOKS and CLEANS.

And, with nothing more to report tonight that’s anywhere near sane, I’m going to give Lois one more pat for good behavior and haul myself off for a nice soak in the tub, before I bore you with my rather high level of crazy.

Happy Monday night, y’all.

1 thought on “She Cooks. And She Cleans.

  1. I have to say that the most discouraging moment about moving into a home where THOR lives (ya know, the enormous Viking in my kitchen), is when I realized that his self-cleaning knob was broken. I think it’s because he’s a guy. He cooks but he doesn’t clean… until I pay mucho dinero to have his knob fixed… and I think … ‘that’s what she said’ ??? Does that work there????
    So, take heart. You are not, in fact, the only one who names your appliances. Unfortunately, mine is named for his stubborness and my inability to manage his thermostat…

    Is ‘that what she said’????

    Bwaaaahhahahahahhahaaaahhaaa!

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