The Day That Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother Said, “I Give Up.”

I think I’m raising wolves.

It’s because while I was off teaching PE today, and while the boy was off gaining a higher education at the high school, and while Hubs was at work, and while Thing 2 was hanging out with his cousin and his Grammy, the housekeeper that I cannot afford came over.

And she worked her magic.

Basically this means that she said some words like “Bibbity-bobbity-boo,” and then dove into our bathrooms.  I was glad that I wasn’t home to hear what she thought about them, because our two bathrooms were beginning to look like they belonged on the side of a gas station at a major truck stop.

You know… the ones where you have to get a key from the toothless cashier, who’s sipping something questionable out of a 48-ounce soda cup and a straw, and the key comes to you on a trashcan lid, for safekeeping.

And then, when you actually get the place unlocked and have tipped the trashcan lid sideways to get it through the door, you wonder if Jason Bourne changed his identity in the sink, or whether you should just back out and call the authorities about a possible murder location, what with the sink being filled with… what?  Red hair dye?  Blood?  And the mirror is all scratched up so that you can’t see your reflection, but you can clearly read, “Daniel Broke My Heart And Needs To Die,” which was written with a broken pocketknife.

Yes.

That’s the condition that our bathrooms were in.

Don’t judge us.

You know what they say… “Dirty bathrooms, lovely hearts.”

When I had gathered my young charges up from school and Grammy’s, I pulled into the driveway, shut the Suburban off, turned in my seat, and said, “The housekeeper has been in our house.  It will not go well for you if you create a mess.”

It’s because for the exorbitant cleaning fees that today’s housecleaning businesses fetch, I would like to enjoy at least six entire minutes in my home before it’s destroyed.

The boy walked in, plopped his backpack down and immediately proceeded to haul our enormous, industrial-sized blender out from a bottom cabinet, so that he could make a homemade, frozen coffee drink.

That blender didn’t seal right this afternoon, and everything leaked out of it.

Yes.

That’s right.

Chocolate-flavored, added-some-caramel-to-it milk poured onto the kitchen counter, down the fronts of the cabinets, and all over the freshly-mopped floors that still smelled like lemon Pine-Sol.

And then he tipped the bag of sugar over on the counter, so… you know… sugar granules from here to Mars…

… and back again.

We had enough sugar granules to circle the earth forty-three times.

While this was going on, Thing 2 realized that he couldn’t find his Snurf.

Yes.  S-N-U-R-F.

Thing 2, you see, hasn’t officially learned the English language’s blend of the consonants SM, so he pronounces it with the SN sound instead.

Snoke.  Snall.  Snell.  Snile.  Snorgasbord.  Snurf.

What he was after was the Doctor Smurf, circa 1982.  Sister and I had him when we were young ‘uns, and somehow he has survived moves to colleges and new houses and marriages and blah, blah, blah, and Thing 2 found him this week in a drawer of mine.

And at 4:15 this afternoon, the SNURF couldn’t be found, so Thing 2 took it upon himself to dump his entire toybox out, in search of him.

Not just half of the toybox.

Not just three-fourths of the toybox.

But ALL.  OF.  IT.

And that is pretty much the time when I realized that I wanted to seriously look into this entire Tiny House Craze that’s gripping the nation, where folks build 300-square-foot cabins and live with minimal furnishings and accessories.  I think my sanity would enjoy building one of them in our backyard, where I could keep things cleaned up and occasionally visit the mess-making wolves in the bigger house a few times every day.

But the good news is that THE HOUSEKEEPER THAT I CANNOT AFFORD WAS COMING, so… in preparation, with forethought and pre-planning and pats on my own shoulder… I put dinner in the crockpot this morning.  My goal was to come home to sparkles and shines and one heck of a decent stew-gravy that had simmered all day and could be dumped over mashed potatoes.

At least we had a good four minutes of loveliness before the train wreck happened.

And it was one downright fine dinner.

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