Our house is generally a good 30 minutes away from clean. It gets messy a little at a time, for we often excuse ourselves from weekday dishes, sweeping, and dusting. The problem with being 30 minutes away from clean is that of those 30 minutes, exactly zero of them are fun. And when I'm at home after a long day of trying to entertain kids with grammar...
(What's an independent clause, you ask? Well, it's Santa's self-sufficient brother. Ha! Okay, notebooks out and write down this sentence: "Mr. K's wife is preggers, so he cooks delicious pannercakes for her every single morning." You have two independent clauses connected by a comma and a--what is it, class? Yes, a conjunction. What kind? It starts with a 'C' and rhymes with shmoordinating...)
...all I wanna do is goof around. And why shouldn't I? I work almost 185 days a year, dammit.
The tidying slovenliness only becomes a problem on Friday nights. When Julie gets home ready to give relaxation an honest attempt and the house is messy--well, you know those spitting dinosaurs in Jurassic Park that kill Newman from Seinfeld? Yeah...
You see, pregnant rage precludes any possibility of rational debate. The dishes become my dishes; this house is messy becomes I will destroy you in a pillar of fire, you lazy man-child.
Not today, though. Today, ladies and gentlemen, I have cleaned.
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