These are all things that could happen some day… but, until they do it is in everyone’s best interest if they don’t , like, hold their breath or anything drastic like that.

Floors are an area of housekeeping that is an enigma for me.  I mean cleaning it has always been hit or miss at best.  I am quite careful of the dishes and keeping the kitchen clean.  My laundry is fastidious.    Toilets, clean enough to actually POOP in, (if you can imagine doing such a thing).   But the floors just seem like such a losing battle.  I mean, people actually WALK on those.  In their DIRTY SHOES.  And if anything gets dropped, nasty stuff or not, guess where it lands.  That’s right. Think about it, it has never made less sense to clean anything.

When the girls were babies, crawling around, I tied wet sponges to their little knees and hands and sent them on their way I made a better stab at vacuuming and sweeping and (yawn) mopping.  But as they grew older and developed immunity to plagues the ability to walk, their little faces shined, their hair gleamed and smelled of baby shampoo with a huge matching bow in it.  Their outfits were always washed, with no stains and perfectly pressed on the occasion it was needed.  Their little white lace-ups and sandals, always polished.  You’d never look at one of MY children and think that their mother was so ghetto that it would take a street sweeper to get her floors clean.  (Mither is going to DIE at that statement… maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration.)

My dilemma now is somewhat different than it used to be.   I now have such “easy care” floors.  Ceramic tile in the kitchen, breakfast area, foyer and bathrooms and wood laminate through out the entire rest of the downstairs with the exception of my bedroom which is carpeted.   All the floors are… heh, “easy shine” .  But there is a buttload of them.  Did I say “buttload”?  Maybe I meant shitload… Hummm.  Well, for heaven’s sake!  Why am I second guessing myself?  I am just as certain of my housekeeping as I am of my grammar.

The hairy little dog doesn’t help things any.  She tends to produce great galloping dust bunnies that take on a life of thir own when turned loose in the house.  I guess they’re all domesticated, as far as I  know there aren’t any outside.

Trust me people, by the time they are entirely surrounded and caught, they usually have their own IQ’s.  It’s not unusual for me to have a showdown with them.

My particular variety sound a lot like Cheech and Chong…

Dust Bunny- “Hey, bitch!  You da maid?”

me- looking a bit scared, “…er, yeah?”

DB-“Woman, where you bean?”

me- “Uh, you know… dusting and… you know… there’s the shitty diapers and sheets and, and… WAIT A MINUTE!  You’re the dust bunny!  Why am I explaining myself to you?  GET OUT!  I’M GOING FOR THE BROOMY THING AND DUSTER PAN OTHER THING.  And I know you’re scared of those contraptions!”

DB- Clearly incapacitated by raucous laughter and drinking my beer, “Bitch, you don’ know how to use d’ose gizmo’s!  jes sit down and re-lax!”

me- With righteous indignation dripping out of my pours, yet sitting down just the same, “How DARE you!  I am the BIG CHEESE here buddy!  You need to get your shit together and get out!  YOU HEARD ME!  All your little dust bunny pets need to go too!”

DB- Taking a different tone now, “Now, come on chicka, settle down and  re-lax!  There’s a Boston Legal rerun coming on in just a few mee-nits and we can watch it…”

me- “Really?  Boston Legal?”

DB- “Suuuuure.  Ya know, chika… we could use some popcorn…”