I love having a party and I dread getting ready to have a party, Reader. I love the hosting and people-ing, but the cleaning and the cleaning and the cleaning is ex-haust-ing on my person. I just think other people live a more adult life than I do and don’t have these same struggles. I mean, who needs to clean their house for 28 hours straight before company comes over?? I bet not a-one of you. Everybody else in the ENTIRE WORLD has a naturally clean, tidy and maintained house except ME.
I blame my Clowder. For realz. If I had, oh, say, a sane number of pussycats, say one or two or even THREE, I wouldn’t have these same struggles. I think the triplets have added to the cleaning process exponentially. What to do, Reader. What to do. It’s a period, not a question mark, because we both know I’m not doing anything about it except getting up off my ass in about three minutes and a half a cuppa coffee and finishing up.
I was up until 4 a.m. doing Stuff. Cooking. Cleaning. Baking. Arranging. And I still have about an hour or so to finish up with a few more de-cat-hairings and a few more food items and a tich more arranging.
People are coming. Because this guy came all the way from Delaware and I finally get to meet him:
I don’t think he’ll give a pampered-ass about any of the work I did for his arrival. But that’s okay. I’ll be smooching that face, as long as I don’t scare him and make him cry.
Friendies have said he looks like ME, so yes, he’s going to be a beauty. Here’s Baby Me, only I don’t have that same age handy, and I only have one minute to bang this out, so we’re going with what I have.
Other people are coming, too, because once you invite one you might as well invite twenty.
I’m excited. And exhausted. And need to get up and do stuff. My coffee’s gone. Time to get a-movin’.
What’cha doing today, Reader?
Stop over. We’ll have weenies. And babies. And beers.