Yesterday I was in one of my CLEAN-ALL-THE-THINGS moods, which happens more than it should for someone with five furry critters in the house.
Most people who are fool enough to let the four-leggers outnumber the two-leggers in a home resign themselves to a hairy house.
But not me. Oh no, I am determined that with the right weapons (two vacuum cleaners, a steam mop, a carpet scrubber and my always-in-use washing machine) I can stay ahead of the mess.
I am a fool.
So after I stripped my bed and washed the sheets, pillowcases and blankets (and scraped a pound of pet hair from the dryer’s lint filter) I put the whole thing back together and admired how nice it is to have a clean fresh bed.
Then I went outside to water the mums (I always buy mums in the fall my front steps but usually they die within a week because I forget to water them — this year they are thriving due to my watering diligence.)
When I went back upstairs, this is what I found. And this? Is why we can’t have nice, clean things.