Crud, Sweat and Tears

Today is St. Niklas Day, a day to hold introspective, finish the holiday mail and sing “Silver Bells” and “mistletoe” with Mr B-B-B-Bing Crosby. Unless you live in my universe, where the day starts inocuously enough with breakfast at IHOP. In the kitty corner, because you’re a “party of one”. Oh, don’t you know it! After partying with a tasty Belgian waffle, crispy bacon and inexplicably undercooked eggs over easy, I’m so full of holiday joy that I hold the door for an elderly couple, tweet “good morning!” into the crisp December air and exude good will while doing the weekend shopping.

Mr Crosby, the Andrews Sisters and I are entwined in a complicated harmonical manoeuvre when the cat joins me in washing the vegetables. My initial aww-reflex turns to disgust when I discover that she’s utterly failed to wipe her behind upon exiting the litter box. Who knows where she’s been spreading her poopy contributions, and now she’s ON MY KITCHEN COUNTER! I consider whacking her with the Blarney Stone while Bing warbles about Christmas in Killarney but then just wipe her hiney instead.

Next, it’s off to feed the nagetiers. Having firmly (!) wedged the baby gate into the kitchen corners to prevent rabbit interruption of the vacuuming routine later, I am more than mildly surprised and annoyed when not five minutes later, there’s the unmistakable tipitty-tappity of little furry feet, and who should appear but no tiny Santa and two fluffheads hell-bent on gnawing everything I tell them not to? 

I decide to ignore them for now, mainly because I need to make a run for it and reach the bedroom before they do. Blam!, the door shuts in Rufi’s perplexed face, just before Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum can get into the boxsprings. Leaving them to think about new misdeeds, I bring out the vacuum cleaner to finish the living room area. I nearly end up finishing myself instead: that stupid thing weighs about 500 kilos, every single one unwieldy, the hose keeps popping off at the most inoppportune moments -which is always-, and it absolutely refuses to suck up anything from the area rug. Hence, my declaration: I will not, upon return of my straying and Christmas-marketing husband, EVER vacuum another rug with this monstrosity again! Not one! Mind you, I wanted the sleek, practical, easily disassembled, reaching everyplace super vac. Never mind that it cost in dollars what this sucker upper weighs in pounds. Thanks to frugality, my attempts at becoming a domestic goddess are thwarted once again. At least I’ve managed to briefly hide the dog slobber stains on the laminate by wiping them vigorously with a damp sponge. (here a side note to said laminate: slobber of any kind will never, ever come off, ever again. No kidding. You may THINK you’ve cleaned your floor, but at a disadvantageous angle, you’ll see that the stains have merely found different lighting to hide in)

Tiny Terror and I will now finish the mail. Meanwhile, please enjoy some gratuitous shots of our wintery, yet snowless yard.



The front side, decorated.


Spaceballs? Christmas ornaments? Actually, hedge apples!


Not yet a snow angel



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