Disaster Area

Do you have a house cleaner? I don't. I think I'm the last living person on earth that doesn't have the luxury to complain about tidying up my house before the house cleaner arrives (Boo-flippin-Hoo). When the headlines are screaming recession and the housing market has plummeted I'm thumbing through the phone book for house cleaners and landscaping artists. I'm even in the market for a new, bigger (but mind you more fuel efficient) vehicle. I'm a walking poster child for American consumerism. Yoohoo, President George? Yeah, over here, send me that refund check so I can blow it on a bigger SUV and a full body massage. Never mind my kid's college fund. Ever since we embarked on our camping journey I have returned to filth. My car hasn't recovered from the dust encapsulated exterior and the mohair interior (thanks to our dog), not to mention the rotting milk bottles and dirty clothes shoved into every nook and cranny of the back seat. My house is a collection of spider webs, laundry mountains and more mohair floors. YUK!! I'm so far behind in EVERYTHING, I need a Super Powered Clean Team to catch me up. After our house guests left this weekend, I looked around my living room and realized that my standards for cleanliness have taken a turn for the worse. I didn't even apologize for the laundry piles in the dining room or the dirty pans on the stove (that remained for the duration of the weekend). What I'm doing today? Rolling the big black trash bin into my living room and cleaning out my life. Purge! Purge! Purge!

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