Today we went to a graduation party for the son of some of our friends. The wife is model-pretty, her husband is a hunk, they have wonderful children and their house is stunning and immaculate.
We came home afterwards and my date went out by the pool to smoke a cigar and drink a beer. After a nap I got up to take inventory of the disaster our house had become in the three short days since it had been cleaned (by someone else).
Starting in the kitchen I found a loaf of moldy bread, three days of newspapers, stacks of mail, various and sundry dirty dishes, a dried dwarf African frog that had escaped from the tank and discovered water was indeed essential for survival, and a parade of ants from the bouquet of peonies to the cricket cage.
The trash wasn't smelling too fresh, either.
In the refrigerator the Catsip container was lying on its side, the spilled milk cementing the bottom of the cardboard box of (rancid) strawberry pie to the glass shelf, raw chicken juice pooling below a supposedly sealed pouch with a chicken breast in it and a container of shaved ham that had dried up to resemble the muscles in the exhibit "Bodies".
A cat was lying on the table, licking his nether regions.
The family room was relatively unscathed save for several piles of library books and the ads sorted out of the Sunday newspaper, an empty tea mug with some dried lemon seeds stuck in the bottom of it and about thirty cat toys strewn about the floor.
The bedroom. Never mind. You get the picture.
So I took another nap, read a book and... went outside to help my date put the solar blanket on the pool. Later on I cleaned up the kitchen and scooped the cat box.
I think I will probably go to heaven for doing all that.
Wait, what's that you say, Mr. Jesus?
(There's not enough room, it's already filled with people who keep their houses clean.)
Oh well.
