I like to remember a time before I was married, when I was really domestic. A single home-owning girl living on her own. Cleaning house weekly and taking names. Somehow after a year of marriage, the upkeep of our home has completely gone by the waste side. I blame Mr. Nation 80%. 20% of the blame goes to our black lab:
Yes, you, Cooper. I don't know how you have any fur left because it's all on my wood floor.
Mr. Griffin gets no blame because 1) he is just so darn cute. 2) his fur is white and only shows up on the black yoga pants I wear when I want to look like I just worked out
This lack of cleaning by the Nations leads to a dramatic breakdown by Mrs. Nation at the slightest chance of company. It goes something like this:
Mrs. Nation: When are you coming home?
Mr. Nation: Soon, I'm in the middle of something.
Mrs.: Me too. Cleaning our house. It won't clean itself and I can't do it on my own. I'm really starting to freak out. I can't live like a frat boy anymore. This has to change....
I know at this point Mr. Nation is really looking forward to coming home.
I always feel better after the house is cleaned and things are in their "place." I then usually make some sort of comment about how much better it looks and it shouldn't be this hard to make it stay this way. And it does stay that way. For about another day or two. Then it slips back to Nu Alpha Tau Iota Omega Nu.
2 dogs + one man boy + 1200 sq ft = no space to hide our crap. This is reason number one why the Nations should move into a bigger house. And then I will hire a house cleaner. The American Dream.
No comments:
Post a Comment