The Roto-Rooter guy should consider himself very lucky because he's been allowed into a very personal part of our lives that is really just reserved for our eyes only. We don't even let our OWN PARENTS see this side of us. What is it, you ask? Read on.
We had a pretty crappy and boring weekend. We did about ten loads of laundry and ran two consecutive loads of dishes through the dishwasher on Saturday (yes, there's just the two of us, but we've let ourselves go lately). That might have been the highlight of the whole weekend had it not resulted in a flooded garage and a special emergency house call from Roto-Rooter for the second time in two months.
I was expecting the dude to complete all of his work outside in the garage, so I stayed glued to the couch instead of cleaning the house and making it presentable for our "company." But apparently the reason why it flooded again was because they didn't root out some other pipe location that is in our basement living room and the clog originated there, rather than just in the garage. I didn't have a clue this pipe hookup thing even existed in that room.
Nick came inside and hurriedly announced that the guy was going to have come in, so I jumped off the couch in my mismatched sweats and crazy hair and picked up all of my delicate underthings neatly spread out and air drying all over the floor. I barely made it in time before Mr. Roto-Rooter himself was standing in my downstairs living room, protective booties on, ready to root to his heart's content.
I was completely embarrassed. Everything was dirty down there, with robot parts and tools spread out on the floor, layers of dust on ledges that you could write your name in, and pop cans, Starbucks cups and coupon-clipping remnants littering the coffee table. I was not prepared.
What I really wanted was to just have Mr. Roto-Rooter leave his tools and pipes and cleaning supplies in my able hands and wait outside until I was done. Seriously, I'll do it. Don’t worry about it. Sorry we even called you out here on this lovely Saturday. And keep those protective booties on because we don't want our floor to get your shoes all dirty.
But obviously I couldn't do that. Because I'm not licensed.
The only other solution was to take my mismatched, sloppy self back up to my couch and sulk and hide in embarrassment while he and Nick moved all of our shelves and tables and couches out of the way, only exposing more neglected un-vacuumed areas and dust-bunnies.
I'm sure Mr. Roto-Rooter did a fantastic job and I'm sure Nick thanked him, but I wouldn't really know because I was too busy pretending that I didn't exist. As soon as he left, I marched downstairs with all of my cleaning supplies and fixed that room back up to its shining glory. You know, because we can't have anyone else finding out how we actually live.
So tell me, are you like this at all? Perhaps a little bit messy but would die if anyone actually saw you that way? I really hope I'm not alone in this, but it's impossible to tell because every time I go to someone's house it is always spotless and clean.
Bunch of fakers.
We had a pretty crappy and boring weekend. We did about ten loads of laundry and ran two consecutive loads of dishes through the dishwasher on Saturday (yes, there's just the two of us, but we've let ourselves go lately). That might have been the highlight of the whole weekend had it not resulted in a flooded garage and a special emergency house call from Roto-Rooter for the second time in two months.
I was expecting the dude to complete all of his work outside in the garage, so I stayed glued to the couch instead of cleaning the house and making it presentable for our "company." But apparently the reason why it flooded again was because they didn't root out some other pipe location that is in our basement living room and the clog originated there, rather than just in the garage. I didn't have a clue this pipe hookup thing even existed in that room.
Nick came inside and hurriedly announced that the guy was going to have come in, so I jumped off the couch in my mismatched sweats and crazy hair and picked up all of my delicate underthings neatly spread out and air drying all over the floor. I barely made it in time before Mr. Roto-Rooter himself was standing in my downstairs living room, protective booties on, ready to root to his heart's content.
I was completely embarrassed. Everything was dirty down there, with robot parts and tools spread out on the floor, layers of dust on ledges that you could write your name in, and pop cans, Starbucks cups and coupon-clipping remnants littering the coffee table. I was not prepared.
What I really wanted was to just have Mr. Roto-Rooter leave his tools and pipes and cleaning supplies in my able hands and wait outside until I was done. Seriously, I'll do it. Don’t worry about it. Sorry we even called you out here on this lovely Saturday. And keep those protective booties on because we don't want our floor to get your shoes all dirty.
But obviously I couldn't do that. Because I'm not licensed.
The only other solution was to take my mismatched, sloppy self back up to my couch and sulk and hide in embarrassment while he and Nick moved all of our shelves and tables and couches out of the way, only exposing more neglected un-vacuumed areas and dust-bunnies.
I'm sure Mr. Roto-Rooter did a fantastic job and I'm sure Nick thanked him, but I wouldn't really know because I was too busy pretending that I didn't exist. As soon as he left, I marched downstairs with all of my cleaning supplies and fixed that room back up to its shining glory. You know, because we can't have anyone else finding out how we actually live.
So tell me, are you like this at all? Perhaps a little bit messy but would die if anyone actually saw you that way? I really hope I'm not alone in this, but it's impossible to tell because every time I go to someone's house it is always spotless and clean.
Bunch of fakers.
6 Comments:
i'll admit it. i'm a faker. haha.
come to my house on any given weekday and you'll find stacks of library books on the coffee table with little smudgy cat prints on the glass. unwiped counters in the kitchen and unopened mail sprawled all over the counters.
i live in clutter until the weekends when i finally take the time to clean! unless of course i have company coming earlier. then let the faking begin!
Dude, I live alone with three cats and rarely have people over. My place is a DISASTER.
Also a faker, right here.
Oh, and I saw these and thought of you:
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Oh, I'm totally a faker. If someone is coming over I go into hyperdrive with cleaning, vacumming, taking out three months' worth of recycling, burning scented candles to cover up the phantom cat odor...
Angie...lol, can't join your party. I have three fur babies, if i neglect my house for one day, my unknown neighbors three blocks away would smell proof.
I'm obsessed about cleaning. I'm in a bad mood if one picture is not straight enough on my wall!!!
My house is never spotless and clean. Haha. Everyone who's been here can attest to that. I've learned to embrace it. You must embrace it. Come to the dark side.
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