As I said before, I am a cliché housewife straight out of a Southern Living magazine. So, I wasn’t at all in a panic when my husband called me to let me know he was bringing home one of the specialists from work to pick up some items for his ruck. No, in fact I was in hysteria! I dashed around our house running from room to room picking up anything I could get my hands on and sprayed every inch with frebreze! I threw on a dress and managed to wipe lunch off the children’s faces just as the garage door went up. I was pleased. The house looked spectacular, the first floor of it anyways.
My husband marched in, Specialist Du’(something extremely hard to pronounce, much less remember) following not far behind. I got up from the couch- I was posing like Rose from Titanic on- and I shook his hand, trying to hold my breath to keep from breathing as if I just finished a triathlon but I’m sure the bullets of sweat running down my forehead didn’t give me away. If you have ever run a mile and then tried to introduce yourself to someone you know exactly what I mean. Unfortunately, I didn’t pull it off because I looked more constipated then smooth and it didn’t help that he had just watched me get up from the couch. Awkward.
“It’s upstairs man,come on up.”
Really??? They couldn’t find their crap in one of the rooms I had actually cleaned? So I retreated to the couch to make like potato and morn in the failure of my attempts. Sorrows aside I was just praying whatever underwear covering the floor of our bedroom be something sexy like that might redeem me somehow.
Not a chance…