So*. Fahim’s dad calls around six to let us know they’re getting ready to come over.
What?????? I scream, of course, then run upstairs to put on something more suitable. I figure they’ve be scandalized if they saw me wearing my ultra comfortable stretchy pants. So I put on a skirt down to the ankles – much more modest and much more comfortable for them. I then scurry to do as much damage control as I can.
See, while I have all the necessary skillz to keep the house clean, I don’t, in actuality, keep the house clean.
Call me lazy, sure. Or tired of cleaning. Or, well, lazy.
Anyway. It needs a good amount of hosing down from top to bottom, but that ain’t gonna happen in the half hour that I have.
So I give Fahim instructions to clean the living room, including our two faux-leather chairs that are covered in, well, mildew. All he has to do is wipe it down, which I’d been meaning to but hadn’t. And he picks up a bit.
Meanwhile, I hurriedly do dishes. Will I be expected to cook dinner? We have leftover pasta for Fahim and I, but not enough for them. If I have to cook, I’ll need the pots, so nope, can’t hide them. Must wash them.
Wash, wash, wash, wash, wash.
Yeah, I’ve had insomnia for the last three or four nights. So sue me.
And I get all the dishes done, hose down the counters, hose down the stove top so the place doesn’t look like the sty it actually is.
All the while, Fahim mutters stuff about how, as long as we’re comfortable living in this mess, what does it matter what his parents say?
Fahim! C’mon! Your mother, my mother-in-law, will notice. Every. Single. Speck. Of. Dirt. Believe me. I’m a woman, and I would.
Not that I’d hold it against anyone. I wouldn’t. But I have no idea how his mom is going to react.
I’ve heard the horror stories. I don’t want one showing up here.
Ack!
And there’s no time to do anything about the dead rat in the living room carpet!
