In my fantasy world of Debland, filled with unicorns and rainbows and really good beer, every day I come home to a tidy apartment.
In Realityville, however, I come home to Kitties, Miller High Life and a Federally Declared Disaster Area. Granted, I wouldn't trade my Kitties for all the unicorns in Narnia, but I also suspect they are largely to blame for the FDDA. I'll take full responsibility for the MHL.
I realize I have had rehearsal for the last few weeks, as well as improv shows two weekends ago and I was out of town for Labor Day Weekend, all of which are high up on the list of Excellent Excuses for Not Cleaning House (Vol. 360); but still, it's always a little disheartening to have to wade through piles of clothes/junk mail/cat toys/???? to get to the sink, where you try to figure out which glass you can extricate from the pile of dirty dishes that will be least likely to give you botulism. (And for any smartasses out there that will snarkly comment, "You could actually wash a glass.", please accept this bird.)
How awesome would it be to be greeted at the door by some hot, young-ish guy in a shirt, unbuttoned to *here* and wearing nothing else, who has the apartment sparkling, the Stella poured into a fancy glass, the sheets turned down and Bruce Springsteen singing softly how he's on fire. (Excerpt from: Fifty Shades of Deb or Debland After Dark).
*I'll give you a moment to collect yourself*
Yeah, well, fuck that shit. After leaving the house at 7:30 a.m. and getting home at 10:00 p.m., I'm lucky to make it up the 49 steps to my apartment, not step on a kitten or two and find my way to my bed, which is filled with cat toys, not boy toys.
But it could be a lot worse. At least I don't have to clean out a unicorn pan.
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