(This is the jubilee version of events, not the short version. You have been warned.)
I am not good at keeping house.
Those who know me IRL also know that is an understatement of rather gargantuan proportions. I loathe housekeeping. I get easily distracted. I get bored. Long gone is the Cinderella-like dream I had when The Calm One asked for my hand in marriage.
When we got married, I dusted with determination (Mom, don't choke on your Diet Pepsi - I'd like you to be around to read the end of the post). I vacuumed with vigor. I wiped counter tops with frenzy and de-cluttered with fervor. Yes, I was a great apartment cleaner.
For about two months.
Fast forward eleven years and the vim and vigor hasn't exactly shown up since those early days. And the distractions, well, they've grown exponentially.
Allow me to give you an example. I was determined to clean the top of my stove this morning. The poor, neglected appliance was crying out for attention and I had steadily ignored it for far too long. But The Calm One presented me with a breakfast this morning that I could not refuse. So I didn't. And I read while I enjoyed my eggs and sausage. So, breakfast may have taken a bit longer than normal. Maybe.
When I finished, I eyed the stove while putting my dishes in the dishwasher. And noticed that there were more dishes to be loaded. So, I did.
The Affectionate One decided that she was thirsty, so I poured her a drink. As soon as the milk jug hit the fridge shelf, Whirling Dervish decided he was thirsty too. Out comes the milk once again.
I got a new dish cloth and waited for the water to warm up. While I was waiting, I thought that I might as well use some of that water to fill up my cup since I was behind on my water consumption for the day. I downed the whole 16 oz.
I managed to rinse the dish cloth and realized that the sink needed cleaning before I could fill it with hot, soapy water. I pulled out the lemon Comet and doused the sink. Note to Self: mouth in the firmly closed position.
I filled the sink with hot soapy water after it was scrubbed sparkly clean. Or at least clean. It's so old that the poor thing will never actually sparkle again. And then I had to refill the dish soap in the dispenser. Which was located under the sink and had fallen so far back into the cabinet that I was on my hands and knees, much to my chickadees amusement, and trying not to hit my head.
The phone rang and I gently (a-hem) reminded the unconcerned solicitor that we were on the Do Not Call list. After hanging up I notice the computer was already booted up and ready for me to check my email. I answered a few and since I was online anyway, decided to read a couple of my favorite blogs.
That's when the aforementioned 16 oz of water hit me in a way I could not ignore. Down the hall to the master bath I went, picking up miscellaneous toys and clothes. Clothes were deposited down the laundry chute and toys were dropped off in the toy box in the chickadees' room.
Once I was finished in the master bath, I may as well brush my teeth. The fuzzy feeling does not go away on it's own, you know. Teeth brushing commenced while I averted my eyes to the fact that the sink and floor were in desperate need of attention.
Since I was in the brushing mood, I quickly ran a brush through my hair and searched for an appropriate, matching headband. Upon leaving, I noticed The Calm One's discarded clothes from the day before and retrieved them for their own little trip down the chute.
What was I doing? Oh, yes the stove. With a sigh I placed the various pieces of the stove in the hot soapy water. There was a sudden uproar in the living room and I went to investigate.
After the lost train track piece was found and Whirling Dervish was again happily playing, I was back in the kitchen only to have The Affectionate One in need of a snack. Snacks were prepared and eaten. Dishes were put in the dishwasher. Dishwasher was run (after retrieving the dishwasher soap from under the sink).
Each stuffed animal then had to have a cape according to my two very own pint sized superheroes. Blankets were found and tied accordingly. And promptly deposited on the floor amid appeals for finger painting.
Brushes and watercolors were presented instead. Sulkily, the chickadees painted and grumbled while I returned to the stove. And scrubbed. And then scrubbed some more.
I can joyfully report that the stove is clean.
It just can't seem to figure out why it took two hours to do it.