Because dinner isn't ready yet.

(You should know: I wrote the title last of all, and immediately after finishing it, dinner was ready.)

So my dad just told me, “I’m glad you’ve gotten to cleaning your room finally,” or something along those lines, which is really too bad for him, because I’m about to write about it instead of actually doing it. OOPS.

Seriously, though, maybe I should just write a blog about housecleaning, because I always end up amusing myself so thoroughly in the process. Of course, then I would never actually clean my house, and then I would have no credibility.

Then again, what’s new?

Many of you are probably thinking (by now you should know this is just a word device that allows me to Segway* into new topics, so don’t feel bad if you weren’t actually thinking it), “Hey, Lydia, why does your dad care if your room is clean or not? Aren’t you at college?” and to that I must respond and say that I moved back exactly one week ago (a.k.a., THE SEMESTER IS OVER HAPPY TEARS), so now I live on my dad’s property once again, and its upkeep is once again a part of my responsibility.

This brings up an important question: Why do they call it “REAL” estate? Why is the REAL important? Do some people sell fake estate? I’m sure they do. Is it to differentiate from home sales on the black market? If someone could fill me in, that’d be great.

From my extensive experience, moving back from college usually involves finding everything you own that could function as a storage container (grocery bags, tissue boxes, large shoes) and throwing things into those things, and then throwing those things into your car, and then calling your dad because your car is making a funny sound, and then him saying, “It should be fine; just come home anyway and then never drive it again,” and then driving nervously home on a congested freeway full of reckless drunkards. Ha ha! This is a joke. Sort of.

The kicker is when you get home and you have to move all of your stuff from your car to the inside of your house. This can take up to a few months. Eventually, it’s in, and after some parental prompting, it finds its way up the stairs into your room. This can take up to a few years. By some miracle, we managed to do it in a week, which is saying something, because we haven’t finished unpacking from when we moved here. Four years ago. Anyway, my room is full of boxes that I’m not going to unpack until I actually need what’s in them, which I didn't think mattered, because my room has always been something of a storage unit for boxes. From our move. Four years ago. Really, the only difference in my room between pre-Lydia and post-Lydia was that I had unpacked my duffel bag, so there was a whole mess of clothes laying on the floor and the chair, but there have been clothes on the chair for the whole semester and probably since the beginning of history. All in all, I didn’t think it looked that different, but apparently it’s a disgrace. So when I was asked for the fourth time this week to clean it, I finally caved. And by that, I mean I repacked my duffel bag.

After that, my mom came in with some giant blankets and asked me to store them in my closet.

It never fails. 

Fortunately, they have yet to find the dishes next to my bed from…uh…Tuesday? No. Maybe Monday. Yes, definitely Monday. Ew. One second.

(If I had sponsors, they would give a message here.)

All better. I’m pretty sure those were from both Monday and Tuesday, because I did not have ice cream twice in one day. Although comparatively, indulgence in such a habit would probably be less atrocious then the cleaning habits I have just displayed.

But I digress.

Usually, when I clean, I become very distracted by not cleaning. This will make me a bad wife (and apparently an even worse feminist). Today, for example, I watched four tutorials on how to cut T-shirts into tank tops and then attempted to follow suit. The project itself was laden with irony, as the shirt was one I had gotten from running track at Private Christian High School, but after I was through with it, it was no longer within the dress code of Private Christian High School. Then again, neither were the cheer uniforms, but that’s not a discussion I feel like having again. All in all, I didn’t intend the shirt to come out skanky, but it kind of did, and now I might not wear it, but it’s cute in theory.

After that, I read a book.

Then, still infused by the YouTube-induced craft-fever, I began a search for some old pants.

Then my dad came in.

“Mom? Oh…hi dad.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cleaning!”

“…okay…”

“Why do we have this?”

“That’s, um, a muumuu.”

(I was wearing a muumuu.)

“Why do we have it?”

“I bought it for your mom.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“…um…you’re cleaning?”

“Yep!”

“Okay. I’m glad you’re cleaning, but…you need to go wash off that gunky thing by the door.”

“Okay.”

(...brief pause for me to get downstairs and turn on the hose..)

“Could you clean it over there so that you water the palm tree?” 

(My dad invested in several palm trees for his mid-life crisis. One lives in the garden, one died in the garden, four are growing in pots against the wall for pool privacy, and one grew a foot a week and is almost as tall as our house and will probably eat us someday. This is the one he is speaking of.)

“Okay.”

Then I came upstairs...annnnnnd...blogged about it.

This has been the height of excitement today. We have come full circle, right back to where the story started (that’s what full circle means), and fortunately for you, I have nothing left to waste your time with.

So…have a nice day.

Fin.

*Apparently, that's not how you spell this word in this context. A segue is a transition, and a Segway is "the leader in personal, green transportation." In the interest of consistency and further rebelliousness, I'm going to continue to spell it the mall cop way, not my mom's way. Thank you for understanding.