Monday, December 6, 2010
SNIPERS RUIN ALL THE FUN
If you had peeked into my window on Saturday morning, you would have seen me on my hands and knees. Getting down and dirty.
Mind. Out. Of. Gutter. Sorry, nothing saucy. Oh unless the unidentified treacle-like substance I was trying to scrub off the window sill was actually tomato sauce, then yes, it was saucy. And revolting. I place the age of the brown sticky substance somewhere between Easter 2009 and Fathers Day 2010. Oh yes, if nothing else I am ever vigilant about keeping my house.
The reason for my sudden burst of housekeeping? We were expecting a babysitter at precisely 5:30pm. And not just any babysitter, this was Jacks teacher at Day Care.
The house was in its usual bombsite fallback position. Crumbs on the floor, urine puddles on and around the toilet, a mountain of washing harbouring wet towels thoughtfully dumped between the dry clothes and of course, bowls with petrified apple cores languishing in the sink. This is nothing unusual on a Saturday morning. We’ve both worked all week, we’ve let things slide and to be honest, it just gets dirty again the minute we clean it.
But this Saturday was different. Phil wasn’t about, he was working. Jack was being insanely difficult.
Breaking things, dropping bags of oats on my mopped floor even though I had explicitly requested he stay out of the kitchen, those kind of shenanigans. Not much was getting finished and to be honest I was getting sidetracked. Instead of just focusing on one room I would flit and get distracted and half of most everything got done.
It kind of helps though when you have someone coming over. Puts it all in a different perspective. You start to see your house through someone else’s eyes. And you shit your pants a little. Suddenly you notice the DVD’s scattered willy nilly through the bedroom and the inch thick dust covering the plasma. And then you notice the mould that has started to overtake the bathroom ceiling. Shizenhausen.
So after a hearty day of jiffing the shit out of the bath, sugar soaping the walls and cleaning the underside of the highchair (just in case the caked on gravy is discovered), I got myself ready and prepared for the lovely Cheryl.
We went out and had a lovely night. Oh except for a stupid sniper who decided to start shooting random people from a high-rise RIGHT where we were about to tag along to a party and meet Julian McMahon. The whole of Surfers Paradise was put into lock down and we couldn’t get in. Way to ruin a chance meeting with a big shot celebrity stupid sniper guy. Sorry, I've regressed, back to the riveting story about my lack of housekeeping skills....
So, we came home and not only were our children all sleeping and safe, Cheryl had pulled my clothes from the dryer, folded them and washed the kids dinner dishes. I wanted to bottle her. Or at least hold her captive for a few days.
Alas, as neither were options, we bid her farewell and I made my last and pleasantly pissy, stopoff to the toilet. That’s when I saw it. Caked on poo. It seems at some stage, after I had cleaned the toilet that afternoon, one of my children (presumably the 4 year old) had gone to the toilet and performed what appeared to be some kind of crazy dance move and rubbed his ass all over the back of the toilet seat.
Oh God, why did I even bother trying.
Do you clean for the cleaner? The babysitter? The Mother-In-Law? Or just for yourself?