Are they saying what I think they are saying?

 So when we last met, I had just seen stars, remember?

As Mini and I rushed out of the dancing studio, I called a restaurant near home.  I asked them to make me an omelet.  'I'll be there in 10 minutes!'  I've been really busy lately and I am out of my breakfast sandwiches - explanation of these gems is coming.  No time to scramble eggs.  A salad for lunch is my standard, but I knew that I would not be able to come up for air, let alone a salad, as I shoveled stacks of clothes and chachkies out of the cleaners' way - not to mention all of the crap that landed upstairs when the floors were refinished.  It was a shit-show.

Big Mama needed to eat.  I didn't have a good gluten free option for dinner last night, and I almost gnawed my own arm off before bed.  Lesson learned.

I inhaled most of my eggs, and hadn't even removed my coat when the professionals marched in.  I begged Reggie, who was mostly better, to assist me -somehow.  Mini was aware of the mission, because I had been obsessing over it on our way home.  I had also been praying that my eggs were ready when we pulled up to the restaurant.

It didn't take long before I was dripping in sweat.  Why had I not moved some of this shit out of the way before?  What was wrong with me?

Exhibit A:  there was a bin of clothes hangers on the laundry room floor - partially blocking the laundry room entrance.  I think I've been tripping over it since the beginning of the summer.  When I reorganized the laundry room, I hauled it down off of a high shelf to make room for Curly's future wardrobe bins.  I used to run a garage sale for the kids' Catholic school.  I ended up with this bin of hangers (and lots of crap the kids grabbed hold of) . . . um, years ago.  I had already selected the hangers that I wanted to keep.  Why, oh Lord, WHY, had I not ditched it earlier?

I summoned Reg upstairs.  'Haul this bin out to the dumpster (see that, we have a dumpster - so there really is no excuse!) - toss the hangers and bring me back the bin.  In less than 2 minutes, I had an empty bin to work with AND a clear path to the laundry room.  Of course said bin had no lid, but beggars can't be choosy.

I'm convinced that I would 
have a better handle on the scum 
in our house, if I had the correct 
equipment.  A step stool.  Brilliant!  
And a nifty cleaning supply caring thingy.  
Definitely this is why I fall short.

Ah, and a real feather duster.  
A bit more official than 
dusting with Coach's old
ripped up t-shirts.

Just the day before, I had started to organize the girls' closet.  Oh, the timing.  We didn't get very far - just the dumping phase.  Dumping bins, clearing shelves, making piles.  An able bodied person couldn't walk into their room without fear of life or limb.  The other rooms that were in serious disarray had no such excuse.  Lots of paperwork type stuff that I didn't want to lose track of landed in a corner of my bedroom.  Now I found myself jamming it into various drawers and on shelves in my closet.  I kept calling out to the children asking them to witness my panic-mode-stuffing system.  I ordered them to help me remember my new not-so-intricate filing system.  Yeah, great plan.  A few of these kids were delirious with fever and stomach pains, but I'm sure they were completely tuned into my need for backup memory help.

I was entirely too frazzled to snap a photo of the mayhem created in the girls' room when we rearranged their closet.  I know you're broken hearted to have missed that scene.  I'm proud to share this gem though.  The finished product.  I'm trying to avoid getting too excited.  I know from experience . . .  it won't last.

I had forgotten what color the tile
floor was in our laundry room. 
During my sweat fest, I managed to clear the
counter-top in there.  I had given up hope
 that it was possible.  Just what I needed -
a small army of workers speaking in
their foreign tongue about me
 and no doubt judging
me as I struggled to keep up with them.

The staff of cleaners never hesitated to plow right thru the rooms and get to work.  They spoke to one another in Spanish.  Between delivering commands to Mini, I asked her if she could understand what they were saying.  I mean, she's had a little over a year of junior high Spanish.  Let's see her put that knowledge to work, damn it.  She couldn't decipher their speedy conversation.  I assume it was something along the lines of:  'These people live like filthy animals.'  I would've agreed with them.  Honest.

The house looks AMAZING!  I should invite people over or something.  But alas, the pukers.  They are recovering.  As I draft this, they've moved into the sips of vitamin water, popsicles, and dry toast phase.

The cleaning crew hadn't been gone for more than an hour before the carpeted basement floor was littered with discarded popsicle sticks.  Does anyone know how to say 'filthy animals' in Spanish?