Haven’t seen any pictures of my house, have you? Well, there you go. I’d take some, but I can’t find my camera. Yesterday my son asked me to go into his room and get his rifle for him, as he wanted to go do some target shooting. I grabbed my cell phone, advised my husband of my destination and my estimated return time, and shouldered open the door. After fighting off an enraged amoeba that emerged from under the dresser sporting a stiff pair of boxer shorts and a bad attitude, I stumbled across the bed and spotted the rifle. Jimmy Hoffa was using to to fend off a tribe of indigenous headhunters that had established a primitive civilization in the closet.
I figure in 4 years the boy will be out on his own, at which time I’ll go in with a shovel, a dumpster, and a machete and clear things out.
My living room is kind of clean. If you ignore the books oozing out of the inadequate bookshelves.