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…
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