Now listen to me blog,
I don't have a lot of time for you today. Seriously. Chup A. Cabre is coming home from a two week stint in Europe and I want him to come home to a clean house.

No. You are right, not like he cares.

But I care.

And this morning when I was throwing away all of the gloopy bottles of paint from Ollie and The Chief's window art show yesterday, I was surprised to see how much paint didn't actually make it on the window.

And when I went to put the dishes in the dishwasher I found a snail from Jane's snail collection (surprise! those buggers are still alive!) squishing around the clean dishes. I also found one (I thought for sure was dry and deceased) trying to escape for his life from the garbage can.

And guess what? Snails excrete more than a silvery trail of wet, they also leave coils (coils? that word is heave-inducing) of former bowel tenants.

And there are bits of turquoise of play dough in the most random places (next to the couch? in the camping cooler? (we don't camp) (why don't we camp?) ).

And the dining room is still holding captive my travel bag--the contents of which are spilled all over the place--until I get to the part where I unpack.

And I keep meaning to write my father-in-law Popeye a thank you email for mowing the lawn so spectacularly while we were gone. Honestly, Chup does a great job, but his father made the gardens at Versailles jealous. I know, they called.

But most of all blog, I don't want you to get the idea that I am addicted to you. Your eager willingness to publish my thoughts and bizarre ideas don't fool me. I know what you want from me. You want my time, don't you blog?

Not today Shorty. Not today.

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