|Both my darling flatmate and myself are busy people. He goes to school in the morning, works for a school in the afternoon and teaches in the late afternoon/evening. I go to work, surf the internet, e-mail friends and family, write blog entries and then come home, shattered. Occasionally I might visit Jim (I need new shoes, so haven’t been going for a wee while *slap on the wrist indeed*).
After years of reading articles that fall along the “how to save your relationship” lines, scoffing when they mention “involving another person” and generally thinking of myself as ‘better than that’, I’ve relented.
Well, it’s more like we capitulated, to be more accurate. Rolled over and died is also possibly reasonably ‘concise’.
The point being, that because we’re busy people, with hectic (for hectic, feel free to substitute the word ‘hangover inducing’) social lives, and we also travel for work and occasionally like to spend the entire day on the couch not raising a hand to do more than break off another piece of Lindt (yum, have I mentioned how good that stuff is?); we’ve neglected our household chores.
Not for a few weeks.
Almost a few months.
This, in student life, is perfectly acceptable – expected and (dare I say) charming (provided one finds rodents and cockroaches ‘charming’). In an ‘almost-30’ (ARGH! How did that happen? *throws draft timeline out the window in a fit of pique*), supposedly intelligent, supposedly career-woman with ridiculously high aspirations and goals, not to mention, approaching visitations from friends in NZ, this is TOTALLY unacceptable.
Not to mention embarrassing. (yet here I am, again, blathering about it to all who read the internet)
So. After many weeks of “ooh, must call that number I got off that person at that dinner I went to…” style Nomes-dithering, I finally rang it. I had a “possibly successful” semi-czech conversation the results of which would be seen on Thursday afternoon.
Thursday afternoon rolled around. I took myself home – neglecting (foolishly – given the current weather patterns) to collect my winter coat from the dry cleaners – and met a lady outside our building. She followed me up to our house, then proceeded to strip.
Because here, cleaners like you to assess their work on the basis of how well they shimmy.
She changed into ‚work‘ clothes – quelling the inner wince that had been developing when I saw her outside, wearing 4“ stillettos.
Two hours later, the house was cleaner. Not spotless, but then for NZ$12/6E – what did we expect? But the choice of a mediocre job done weekly, or a great job seldom done, when combined with the impending visitation, I know which option I’m taking and happy with (this week).
Let’s hope that the lasagne sitting in the slow-cooker on the counter top doesn’t burn/boil over/go hideously wrong today. Fingers crossed again please peeps. Yes, lasagne IS on the same scale as parental heart surgery...