Monday morning (okay, early afternoon) I had to clean. Clean clean clean! Because the illustrious Captain Awesome was going to come visit before going to boot camp (eek) and my apartment looked like it should be condemned. This is not my fault, people. I work from home. My coffee table is always CRAMMED full of crap, no matter how much I sweep it all into the bin and then weep the tears of the defeated because I NEEDED THAT CRAP THAT'S WHY IT WAS ON THE COFFEE TABLE, YOU MAROON. So anyway, I had to clean.
So I tidied up, and used my Wet Swiffer, which is the most genius invention in the world, with its "Rrrrrrrr!" and clean clean clean floors and when did I become Donna Reed with being excited about CLEANING? I'll tell you when. When the Swiffer went "Rrrrrrr!" and the cats went "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!!??!" and bolted, and we had a merry chase around the apartment. That, my friends, was when it got fun.
Anyway. Then it got LESS FUN INDEED.
I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the toilet (SEXY! I'm single, fellas, just wanted to put that out there) and something small caught my eye. And another one. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAND another million or so. And that's when I saw them.
Ants! In my bathroom! WHY?!?!?!!?? I do not indulge in snacks in my bathroom! I do not feast on a picnic in my powder room! Why were there ANTS? So I did what any other insane person would do. I stalked into the kitchen, retrieved the Raid, and proceeded to spray the hell out of the bathroom, which, of course, is a very very small, enclosed space. Then this happened.
"I AM THE BEST CLEANER EVER!!! Take THAT, ants! Whee, I feel funny. Let's use some bleach, just to be safe, okay? Okay good. Okay fine. HERE COMES THE BLEACH, ANTS!!!!"
"Whoa. Whooooooooooooooa. I know this feeling. THIS is the feeling of half a bottle of rotgut vodka. This is the feeling of…not feeling so good. Maybe a little nap, right here on the floor. No, no, something very tiny and loud is telling me not to do that. Is it the ants? I KNOW! It's time to VACUUM! Ooops, fell down. Okay, change of plans. Now is the time to sit on the couch for a while. I love you, couch. You'll never leave me, will you, couch? No, you'll love me forever, and I'll love you foreverrrrzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
And then I woke up with a vicious headache. And the only reason I woke up was that the cats were ROCKETING around the apartment, high as kites, their eyes big as plates. Ooops.
So that's why I need a housekeeper. Or a fairy godmother. Or at least a manservant, because Lars the Imaginary Manservant doesn't do bathrooms. In fact, he doesn't do much of anything except watch Bravo and inspect his pores and talk about how fabulous he is.
Who wants to do the dishes for me?