I cleaned the house for hours today, preparing for my family. Company is one of those things that can get my boyfriend to pitch in, wanting to show an environment that says “see? It’s good that Autumn is here”. He used the vacuum attachments, scrubbed the toilet bowl – everything that is his attention to detail – and I did the same. I dead-headed flowers, shampooed carpet, polished stainless steel and planned gourmet hot dogs for lunch.
Just when we were about finished, my mother canceled. This month’s Good Housekeeping is sitting beside the laptop, serving as a condensation barrier between my desk and a glass of moscato. The bottle is behind me, in a large bowl of ice. I’m glad that my home is clean and am thankful to have had help, getting it that way. I’m even happy that I don’t need to worry about entertaining… but I was ready for guests.
I am geared to have people over. Now I feel like a wristwatch with no hands.
I even considered writing other people’s names on the invitation.
“What is Blair doing?” and “Does your sister have plans?”
We can always pretend they were my first choice. Pretend that the hours are relevant to the wires throughout my body.
Looks like a party.
So what’s all this happy horseshit?
It’s my journal. Or was going to be, before you showed up. This is food for the recycle bin.
How’s that workin’ out for ya?