Why oh why did I have poor parents? I’ve always believed that I was kidnapped by a poor black family who wanted a fat child. Its just a remote coincidence I look like one or two of them. (Just waiting for the DNA results) My family was worst than poor. We were middle class.
When ever my mom asked me to do someone that required any physical effort, I always assumed she was talking to someone else. The smack upside the head wasn’t a suggestion.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m not about Limousines, Mansions or massive chunk of retail therapy. I’m about the Help.
Labor offends me, I’m just not built for mundane domestic duty.
I need help… not just therapy, but I NEED people to do the basic things. I need someone to sweep, mop, to do my laundry My clothes should always be pressed and Snuggle fresh. When I drop a pair of moldy Fruit of the Looms on the floor, there should be someone there in a hazard suit to pick them up and toss them in the Whirlpool.
I’m tired of the yellow tape that’s is my apartment! No, there isn’t a dead person in my living room, just a pile of clothes in the shape of a dead person. My clothes are creative that way.
In my world, there can be only one perfect room at a time. I clean one room and the remnants from that room winds up in the other rooms. There are indicators that tells me that room needs attention. Usually darkness. Then I clean THAT room and new piles begin in the other rooms.
If your one of those……. Pedestrian neat freaks, I don’t wanna hear it!
I’m very, happy, Happy, HAPPY! that your able to clean your entire 11 bedroom home and maintain it little by little everyday! Your the person who gets excited every time Sears has a sale!
My bucket list doesn’t involve skydiving, dinner in Paris, or Okra with Oprah. I just want a man or a women with a big bottle of Pine Sol and can of heavy starch.