My house is against me.

My house is against me.

 

Today’s hate is directed at my house. I have decided that my house wants to see me have a nervous breakdown. It met with my kids and husband, bribed them with things like warmth and shelter, and is now just laughing at me. The house is holding a grudge because it needs some landscaping and we can’t afford it. The Destroyer is our landscaper.

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We shouldn’t have moved here.

“Vida, please stop putting PCP in your coffee,” you say. Well, it’s not PCP, it’s that Girl Scout creamer, and lots of it. Anyway, I have proof that my house is out for revenge. Check this out:

1.) The kitchen. First, I put everything away, because everyone else in this house seems to think that we have cupboards and a refrigerator for decoration. Then I do the dishes that I haven’t forced Wondergirl and The Destroyer to do. I wipe down the counters, sweep, and either mop or Wet Swiff. When all of that is done—and I swear this happens every time—I will take a step backwards onto a Cheerio. This Cheerio will somehow explode into a powder that covers the entire floor. Then, THEN, after I clean that up, I will walk past the sink and a dish has magically appeared in it. And of course the dishwasher is mid cycle by then.

2.) Laundry. (Okay, so this isn’t really a part of the house itself, but like I said, the house has bribed everyone.) History has it that infinity was invented by some ancient Greek dude. I doubt that. I bet it was his wife. Why? Because if the amount of laundry in her house is anything like mine, she had to come up with a concept for never-ending. I will wash, dry and sort (they have to fold their own crap) everything, EVERYTHING, you hear me, and within two minutes we are out of towels. How, towels? HOW? Or Kid Sensation announces he is out of underwear. Oh, and the moment he announces he is out of underwear always happens to coincide with me being on the phone with my mother. (A woman who must have made some kind of pact with her house because it is always spotless and there is always random bacon on the stove. How do you have both of those things, Mom?)

3.) My house causes time warps. “What?! Vida, go lie down,” you say. I will, but you have to hear me out on this. Somehow, it is always dinner time at my house. I swear, I wake up, do my crap around the house, and sit down to write. This is at 9:30 a.m. Two minutes later it’s 5:30 and I have to figure out what to make for dinner and then cook. (And I never have anything to make for dinner, even though spend more time at Fred Meyer than the people who work there.) So after I cook and we eat, what time is it? That’s right, kitchen time. Again. See #1.

See? Tell me that doesn’t sound like a house that’s out to get me.

Fine. I’ll go lie down now.

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