I have the weirdest job in the world, given my domestic limitations.
Keen observers will notice that I have a ridiculous amount of counter space, and so many cupboards I could lease them out as sleep tubes to Japanese corporations. Nevertheless, I have managed to cover nearly every square inch of those counters with items that have just one thing in common, that being they have no function whatsoever in your standard kitchen.
To your right is my purse; on its left is my wallet, which will remain there as later today I dash out to pick up a few items for dinner before the next batch of victims show up for their piano lessons. No trip to the store is complete without my stretching my arms heavenward and wailing, "NOOOOOO!" upon discovering that I have, for the two-thousandth consecutive shopping trip, left my debit card at home.
The red thing is an empty vase. It used to have some beautiful Valentine's flowers in it, but they died. A week later, we threw them out.
If you push "Ctrl" and scroll the little wheel on your mouse, the picture gets bigger or smaller depending on the direction of the scroll (all you blind old ladies like me, you're welcome). Doing this will allow you to observe that there are dishes on the counters and in the sink.
"Hey!" you say, "Dishes belong in a kitchen!" Which just shows how much you know. My family hasn't eaten in the kitchen for a decade. And our dishwasher went rogue back in October, so now we wash the dishes by hand. And by "wash the dishes by hand" I mean, "toss them in the trash at the end of the week and buy stock in Dixie products."
Of course, tossing anything in the trash is problematic around here. Observe photo three:
Yes, I took a photo of my garbage can. I've learned from Kristina that you can't have too many illustrations in your blog posts. She is the wind beneath my skirt, she really is.
Those of you who are swift of mind will already have observed that this silver tube is the approximate size and shape of a Pringles can. Toss two paper cups and a stamp into it and it overflows all over the house.
There are six large, food-consuming, trash-producing humans and a golden retriever with a shoe-destroying fettish living in this place, and I've finally decided we need a garbage can worthy of our talents. Here's hoping Dumpsters come in decorator colors.
However, there is one thing that you can always count on to make any trip to my home worthwhile. Rain or shine, I am always here. I'm such a hermit I make The Boy in the Plastic Bubble look like a nomad. And if you catch me on a good day, like on Thursdays right after Institute, when I'm still wearing a skirt and my hot tamale heels, then you will be priveleged to drink in THESE...
That's right, girls. Those are my legs. I've been telling you for some time now that I have the foxiest legs ever to support a torso developed by Pillsbury. I'm pretty sure there is a stork or an Ikea table in my ancestry, because no matter how much...um...life experience I pack into my waistband, I can always depend on a nice, streamlined taper from the tops of my perfectly curved calves to the ends of my evenly tipped toes.
Which, of course, explains a lot. Who would ever expect a pair of legs like these to push a Hoover around the floor? Come on! Think the Rockettes clean their own floors?
No. They. Do. Not.
Nor, apparently, do piano teachers. And that's probably just as well. I'm pretty sure slurping up a band of wandering Jehovah's Witnesses plays unholy havoc with vacuum bags.
Or so I would imagine.