Drinking on a school night

Drinking on a school night is a notoriously bad idea. It seems like a good idea at 9:30 pm on Thursday night after I’d spent the bulk of the evening running around town trying to get things together for my sisters baby shower (more on that later). I had to grocery shop. I hate to grocery shop. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Happiness would be a personal shopper to do all my grocery shopping and unloading and putting away of said groceries. After braving the big bad grocery store only to stand in front of the freezer section and discover they were out of my favorite flavor of Lean Cuisine, a double martini seemed appropriate. Needless to say I had a headache this morning. I should have bought the double stuff Oreos instead. Tight pants vs. a blistering headache and scotch tape tongue? Hmmmm it’s a toss up.

Throwing baby showers also seems like a good idea – except for the actual preparation and work of said baby shower. The errands. The fancy piped devils eggs. The little desserts. The party favors. Why do hostesses need to give the guests a present? Isn’t the free food and booze enough? I digress.

I’m co-hosting the shower with my mother. Thankfully it’s at her house. Cleaning is my mother’s hobby. Seriously. The woman is a freak of housekeeping nature. Her house is always always always clean. Not just tidy but like surgical operating room clean. It always has the faintest odor of Pine Sol and Windex. My house smells like the garbage should go out because we had corn on the cob two days ago and the remnants are ripening in the garbage can.

When my mom needs to stop by my house I have massive “Oh my god my mom is coming to my house freak out.”; I’m sure she wonders where she went wrong with me. Note my profile. I have dust and clutter. In fact when I left for work this morning there were still two unpacked bags of groceries on the counter along with a wine glass, martini shaker, stacks of mail, a couple of pony tail holders all covered by a light dusting of cat hair.

Boomer (cat #1) is a counter jumper despite repeated attempts at kitty behavior modification. I know he just sits and waits for us to leave work so he can break out into some Cheshire cat grin and lounge around on the counter. That is if he can find a place to lie down amidst the cornucopia of clutter.

I’ve tried clutter management and have failed miserably at it. I’m aiming much lower and going for organized clutter. Neat stacks of magazines and mail. Neat piles of ponytail holders. Neat piles of cat hair. Frankly if I could really get into an aggressive purge session – starting with my husbands bank statements from college. He’s 45. He’s sufficiently past the risk of IRS audit for that time period. Geesh. He’s a saver. I’m a purger. Unfortunately we bred a saver. Savers 2. Purgers 1. So I’m outnumbered. Frankly it’s all too much to think about. Perhaps I’ll make a martini....