This is me, entering my daughter's room.
They are not home.
Thus, I clean.
It's a good feeling when I'm not screaming like a little girl at the things I find.
I quit counting at four trillion.
They are everywhere.
It is not normal.
Are they sneaking out at night, accosting socked people?
I have never seen half of these socks.
The dishes I was missing.
They have come home to roost in mommy's kitchen where they belong.
After I scraped out the molded broccoli.
And I thought I had nothing to take to the Homeschool Science Fair.
My daughters are nasty, dirty, hoarders.
I don't think it's fair.
I'm tidy and organized.
Heck, check out my Pinterest wall if you don't believe me.
I may not hang my blouses according to color, but they are hung, by gum! And all facing the same way on the hangers, too.
Why was I cursed with two stinky, smelly, teenage boys, hiding in the bodies of innocent looking girls?
I stepped on a doll house chair and nearly died.
Anna's American Girl knock-off doll was at my eye level when I straightened up from a particularly back breaking job of under the bed sweeping, and I lost three years of my life.
I started out kind, not throwing too much away, but two hours later I became a sniveling wretch, mind bent on revenge, and I even threw away the only money I found: one quarter.
I now feel as though I have been camping in the wilderness for a week, covered in grime and stickiness, hungry, deranged, mildly hallucinatory.
Thus the Doctor Who humor.
Here's another to leave you with as I go scrape the dirt, residue, stickers, and four pounds of sock fuzz off of my offending body.
Crap. I'm out of soap.
Love, your favorite nerd.