Story of a Weekend

The weekend started like this:

HB and I made pesto, tomato, and mozzarella pizza with diced chicken, modified from this Pioneer Woman recipe. Mmmm-mmmm, good. My stomach is growling right now just looking at that picture. The great thing about this pizza is that leftovers don’t stick around for long. The very, very bad thing about this pizza is that leftovers don’t stick around for long.

That pizza fueled a cleaning war on Saturday morning: me versus the nastiness that had become my house. I was armed with my valiant vacuum (which I would name Ah-nold, like Arnold Schwarzenegger, because it’s a Dyson An-i-mal. Say it; you’ll smile.) No speck of dust or blade of grass was safe. Some tried to run away, screaming in fright, but alas, we were victorious! Witness the carnage…it’s breathtaking.

As in, hold your breath because the dust particles are about to go up your nose.

Admittedly, I have some trepidation about revealing a picture like this before God, my mother, and the world. There’s nothing prissy about this. This is just disgusting. There are practically WAVES of dirt and grime, which is dandy if you’re studying stratification in sedimentary rock or making one of those colored sand sculpture things. But on the floor? In your house? On the place where you put your bare feet? Not so much.

On the bright side, there is some consolation in knowing that this is no longer on the floor. I refuse to discuss how the floor got this dirty, but we’ll say it starts with C and ends with ooper. And my recent tendency to spend all of my time squeezing and cuddling and snuggling her, trumping my true germaphobe nature. Also, in my defense, this canister does reflect HB’s decision to move the washer and dryer and vacuum behind them, which I think had been done…never.

This brings me to another point: do you know what lurks behind your dryer? Lint monsters. Socks you haven’t seen in years. Scary stuff.

But in a complete domestic miracle, I ended the night by baking 4 dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. From scratch. My hair was curled. I had a monogrammed apron, which just so happened to match my dress. It was a total “lady” moment. I should have taken a picture, but you’ll just have to trust me on this.

Here they are in all of their chewy goodness, plus a peek at my shiny red KitchenAid. It’s just coincidence that the tupperware matches. I’m not that June Cleaver. But I’d say she’s a lady, and I kinda like that about her.

One day of cooking, cleaning, and carryin’ on, and I’m plum tuckered out. Which is why my morning consists of Starbucks and this stack of goodies.

The Good Lord help me when I have children. There is no amount of pizza or Starbucks to fuel me for that domestic adventure. And that is a little bit scary. More scary than the lint monsters.

So I’m going to go drink my iced chai now. And then I’ll probably go to Target and buy some nail polish and not think about the dust cyclone in my vacuum anymore. Or the lint monsters.

-pp

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One Response to Story of a Weekend

  1. Wendy aka Martha-wanna-be says:

    Yummy!! Where were you with those cookies when I needed them?!

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