Everything falls into shambles.
Seriously. I came out of a two-day long fevered stupor to find dishes piled to the ceiling in my sink, my trashcan piled impossibly high, and three- count 'em, three - full trash bags sitting haphazardly around my kitchen. There are soda cans, water bottles, and cereal bar wrappers littering my living room, and countless Ramen noodle package pieces peppering my counters.
It's like the Collective just went into chaos mode in the absence of the Queen. (No, I'm not that full of myself, that was a lame Star Trek reference, for anyone out there who doesn't happen to know what the Borg are.)
So you can see what I'm doing now, instead of tackling this depressing mess that I didn't even get to help make, because, well, it's depressing. I'm debating on the delegation of tasks between my little worker bees, because in all fairness, they know that when the trashcan overflows, it's time to take it out, and "out" doesn't mean to pull out a new bag and hang it from a kitchen cabinet. They know that empty cans, bottles, and wrappers go into said trashcan, and not left wherever it happens to fall, to be picked up by Mom when she springs back to life; and they know that dishes, at the very least, should be rinsed and stacked so that I don't have to fight off angry mutant slime monsters when I'm able to load the dishwasher.
It's time for me to sit my family back down and explain the importance of basic cleanliness and how everyone in the house pitches in to keep things running smoothly, even when mom's so feverish that she's babbling incoherently about SpongeBob and nuclear physics.
Resistance is futile.
Seriously. I came out of a two-day long fevered stupor to find dishes piled to the ceiling in my sink, my trashcan piled impossibly high, and three- count 'em, three - full trash bags sitting haphazardly around my kitchen. There are soda cans, water bottles, and cereal bar wrappers littering my living room, and countless Ramen noodle package pieces peppering my counters.
It's like the Collective just went into chaos mode in the absence of the Queen. (No, I'm not that full of myself, that was a lame Star Trek reference, for anyone out there who doesn't happen to know what the Borg are.)
So you can see what I'm doing now, instead of tackling this depressing mess that I didn't even get to help make, because, well, it's depressing. I'm debating on the delegation of tasks between my little worker bees, because in all fairness, they know that when the trashcan overflows, it's time to take it out, and "out" doesn't mean to pull out a new bag and hang it from a kitchen cabinet. They know that empty cans, bottles, and wrappers go into said trashcan, and not left wherever it happens to fall, to be picked up by Mom when she springs back to life; and they know that dishes, at the very least, should be rinsed and stacked so that I don't have to fight off angry mutant slime monsters when I'm able to load the dishwasher.
It's time for me to sit my family back down and explain the importance of basic cleanliness and how everyone in the house pitches in to keep things running smoothly, even when mom's so feverish that she's babbling incoherently about SpongeBob and nuclear physics.
Resistance is futile.
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