It's official ... I need a clone. Not want one; I neeeeeed one. Way back before children came on the scene and hubby man and I were part of the corporate world, we periodically had someone come in and clean the house. Ridiculous, I know. Especially since I would clean before the cleaning woman showed up. What was that all about? I have this "thing" about not letting anyone see the house untidy. (Just like Snidely Whiplash had a thing about train tracks.) Oh, and I didn't want anyone to change our bed linen. Also, a stranger doing my dishes ... uh, I don't think so. So what's the point of having a service if I cleaned before she arrived and then didn't want her to do half the stuff? Needless to say, the service was cancelled. I preferred to just get it done myself.
Now, with 3 active offspring, 2 housebound cats, 1 non-stop hubby man, all day homeschooling and then all night homework-ing with the non-homeschoolers, I concede defeat. My constant cleaning days are hereby, officially over, yet I still want a clean house. Since I still have a "thing" about anyone seeing an untidy house, getting a cleaning service is out of the question, plus I'm just too cheap. So, to me, the most obvious choice is to get a clone. Someone that knows just what I want done and how I like it done. Though we would still be outnumbered, between the two of us, I think we could manage it.
Until I figure out how to split my DNA (I do homeschool, you know), everyone, yep everyone, must pitch in. (Insert family groan here.) It's a work in progress, but eventually we'll get there. And the troops are learning. On Mother's Day, the morning dishes were done for me, and I was treated to eating out -- not carryout -- at the restaurant with just hubby man. This was the kids idea, so don't think for a minute that I planned something to exclude them on Mother's Day. Nope, they came up with the idea and off I went. Hmmm, now that I think about it, they are suggesting that often ... wonder what they're up to. Anyway, living in suburbia, we have a plethora of restaurants to choose from, and one of my favorites is a Thai restaurant in the neighboring city. So, 15 minutes after leaving home, I was seated at said restaurant, staring lovingly at the menu. Not a take out menu; nope, it was the actual restaurant giant size menu. We had a great meal and, even better, no dishes awaiting me when I got home. My idea of heaven.
While eating at the restaurant, I commented to hubby man how nice the interior of the restaurant was. It's not a big place, but has a loyal customer base due in part to the great food and attentive staff. As we left the restaurant, we both agreed that we should dine there again soon. Today, hubby man sent me an email showing me what happened to the restaurant ... a car drove right through the front entrance area smashing tables and decor in it's path. Thankfully, the accident happened inbetween the lunch and dinner hour, and the restaurant was empty except for staff. Gosh, I couldn't believe it. We were just there!
Good news though, the restaurant will reopen, so future eating out plans remain intact. And, uh, looking at this photo reminds me, it's time to get the brakes on the car checked. And, sigh, time to put the laundry in the dryer. I repeat, I need a clone!
1 comment:
It's one helluvaway to redecorate, isn't it?
Car brakes usually last around 50K miles, unless you ride the brakes or some terrible thing happens, like the brake line rots out (which happened to me once, on a Suburban). Or, like on my brand new 1984 Cadillac, when I had no brakes going to work one day, I marched into the dealership and took up bellowing when the idiot in the service area told me it was "impossible" that I had no brakes since the car only had 600 miles on it. What did Marjie do? Why, the only sensible thing. Walk into the showroom and demand to return her 2 week old car, since their service department was staffed with morons who thought she was too stupid to recognize a brake problem. Out walked 3 potential customers, and they fixed the defect in 15 minutes.
And, tell me where to get a clone, too. When people ask me if I have "help", I just snort.
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