Today is Friday. I was up at 4:30 AM with my niece. I got my kids off to school. I got into a nice fight with my sister’s ex when he came to get Abbie. (He told me to “get bent” as he walked away. Classy, no? He’s a MODEL of manners and decorum.)
I did three loads of laundry, watched part of Leatherheads with Kenny, and finally, about a half hour ago, made it into the shower and some real clothes that aren’t in the pajama family.
Normally I would call it a day and pretend the goldfish Anthony dumped out and rolled over with his cars could be ignored for a bit. I would go take a nap and try to sleep off this three-day headache that JUSTthrobWON’TthrobLEAVE. I would ignore the stacks of clean laundry on the couch and hope that Anthony would, too, instead of sweeping them into a heap on the floor, not unlike a pile of autumn leaves. (Oh yes, there’s jumping. And joy. And wrinkled, smudged clothing that was clean before all the jumping. And joy.)
The problem is, I am hosting a book club at my house tonight, and my living room looks like four kids live here. And their rooms threw up all the way down the hall and into the communal living space.
Last time I hosted a book club, it was an epic fail. Is it bad of me to hope the same for tonight? I’d love it if NO ONE showed up. This month, I’d welcome it.
Because here I sit, completely unmotivated to pick things up, while my head throbthrobthrobs and my eyelids feel heavy. I am not even motivated by embarrassment, which usually has me cleaning and dusting in a frenzy.
Perhaps if I leave it the way it is, crumbs and clothes and all the rest, when I open my door to the book club, they will run away in terror.
Oooh, I could get motivated enough to do that…