The plan for today is to clean the entire house. There’s a realtor who’s been trying unsuccessfully to show our house to prospective buyers (and by unsuccessfully, I mean that we pointedly leave the house during the hours the showing is supposed to go down) but we have no choice but to let this play out, since whoever buys the property will be our future landlord. (Supposedly, and I don’t know if I believe it, they’re going to let everyone renew the leases. WE’LL SEE.)
So this is going to happen on Tuesday. Luckily, I’ll be at work. I think Henry should prepare a cheese plate and hand out snifters of brandy to maybe distract from the Sharpie wall-drawings and the hole in our bedroom wall. And the fact that we have four cats.
Anyway! I was just sitting here thinking about all the work that needs to be done, and my eyelids started to droop. Then I started to feel really stressed. So I called Henry, who ran out to get SUPPLIES for this cleaning thing we’re doing.
“Just thinking about cleaning is making me feel so exhausted,” I whined to him. Henry replied with that “I’m dating a spoiled brat” scoff that he patented back in 2002. “So here’s what I’m thinking,” I continued. “You can do all the cleaning and I’ll just stand there and talk to you, keep you company.”
This sounds like a foil-proof plan. I don’t know why anyone would turn that down.
Henry laughed, but I’m not sure it was because he thought it was funny.
No? You don’t like that idea, Henry? How about we just clean all of your shit right out of the house, you like that plan, douche bag?
Besides, there’s Stanley Cup playoff games to be watched today. Speaking of, Sidney Crosby is the best hockey player in the world.
EDIT: Henry is home from the store now. He was pulling plastic off some alien contraption.
“What the hell is that?” I asked.
“This is called a mop, Erin.”