Oy. Freaking. Veh.
That pretty much sums up my house right now. There isn't a word for what it looks like at the moment. "Messy" is such an amateur adjective, the disaster currently surrounding me wouldn't let it carry its golf clubs.
We've gone beyond "cluttered". Even "filthy" packed its bags and quit without giving notice.
You know those pictures on the news of those poor communities in Central America that were constructed entirely of hardened mud so when the big earthquake hit, the houses sort of collapsed in a dusty heap, like maybe they were all playing the architectural equivalent of 'Ring Around the Rosy'?
My house envies those houses. My house wants to be those houses when it grows up.
I thought about posting some pictures, you know, to help you all feel better about the untidy mess-lets you may be facing today.
But I realized that, were I to do so, it would have the same impact on our relationship that confessing an attraction to farm animals or admitting to eating sheep dip for breakfast would have.
You'd start out all supportive, assuring me that 'we all have our little quirks'. But then you'd see the truth, and suddenly your eyes would widen, your nose would wrinkle, and you'd be frantically groping for the door handle as you cried, "What kind of MONSTER are you??"
Yeah. Like I haven't heard that before.
I've been gone for nearly a week, visiting family and dropping off my daughter at BYU-Ihatemyroommates. Since I left Rexburg I've received no fewer than two-point-eight million texts from Vanessa, all variations on a theme of "Where did I pack that cyanide capsule?"
I didn't even realize there was such a thing as a "throwing yourself under a bus" emoticon.
The things you learn when your kids go to college.
Of course, as I told you here, we didn't just pack up two kids and ship them off to assorted Institutions of Higher Anxiety. We also switched rooms with the leftover offspring.
Or at least that is the current plan. Right now, the rooms are semi-empty, and everything our kids ever owned or thought about owning or will own in the future but managed to loop back on the space-time continuum just for this special occasion is either in the upstairs hallway or our bedroom.
Lord have mercy if I should happen to need a bathroom break during the night. Indiana Jones had an easier time reaching that Cave o' Grails than I have reaching my water closet.
So, naturally, I'm blogging about it instead of, you know, cleaning. I have long held that housework was for the unimaginative, a philosophy which has served me well until this week.
But, sadly, even this imaginative soul has had to admit defeat. When the CDC, Child Services, and Homeland Security are all pounding on your door with fists full of complaints and warrants to 'give you a good smacking,' it's time to stop blogging and start digging.
So no more posts from yours truly until I can make it through my bedroom without swinging over the rubble on a trapeze.
Now, if you really wanted to hear from me sooner, you might come over with your backhoe and Hazmat suit.
At the very least, my true friends will start praying for that earthquake.