A True Story

Yesterday my mother-in-law came to stay for the night.  It was the perfect visit for this (incredibly busy) time of year - short and sweet.  Even though she was just staying for the night, however, we still needed the apartment to be clean (read: I wanted the apartment to be spotless and perfect and proof of my wifely awesomeness.  Sidenote: maybe I should reevaluate my standards?).

We had cleaned thoroughly over Thanksgiving vacation - just a week before - but y'all, we have two labs and live in an apartment with no air circulation.  We can vacuum on a Monday and by Wednesday the apartment is COMPLETELY covered in dog hair and dust.  Which meant that yesterday, Saturday, the apartment needed to be thoroughly cleaned again.  Sigh.

So at first we were going to clean on Friday night.  And when that didn't happen, we were going to clean on Saturday morning.  Really.  Around eleven, when I had yet to start cleaning, I asked Pres when his mom was going to arrive.  She was due to arrive at 4:30, which meant that psshhttt we had PLENTY of time!  So instead of cleaning, I got started on a few Christmas photo projects, made our dinner menu for the week, cleaned up my desk and filed some papers, and had about three different mini-lunches.  All in all a thrilling day.

And then all of a sudden, around 3:15 (when I was still sitting in the study and Preston was lying in bed watching episodes of "Psych" on Netflix), Preston's phone rang.  "Wow, really?"  I heard from the bedroom.  "Great, I'll come down and meet you."

And then time stood still as I contemplated the thick layer of dust that was all. over. the den.  And the dog hair - WOE - the dog hair.

And then, zzzzzzip!  Time sped right back up.  I leapt up, already trying to straighten things in the study, as I said, "She's already here?"  "Yup," said Preston, as he leapt out of bed and started pulling clothes on.  "She's early!" I cried, outraged.  "Yup," said Preston.  "Well where exactly is she?"  "She's pulling through the front gates now."

And with that, I scurried into the den and started dusting all of the bookshelves with my sleeve.  Of the shirt.  That I was WEARING.  As I moved around the room, leaving clouds of dust in my wake (and even more on my shirt), I kept rolling up my sleeve to get a fresh cleaning surface.  As I moved into the dining room, my sleeve was rolled up to my elbow - it couldn't go any further.  So I just stripped off the shirt and started frantically using it to wipe down all visible surfaces.  I was wearing shoes, unbuttoned jeans, and a polka-dotted bra.  I looked like a new level of crazy.

Meanwhile, Preston was quickly vacuuming up the most egregious clumps of dog hair around the apartment, and carrying his dirty dishes into the sink.  "Oh my gosh," I exclaimed as he passed through the dining room.  "I still have to clean the bathroom."  "OK, well I should probably go down and get Mom," said Preston as he moved from room to room (approximately 90 seconds had passed between the reception of the phone call and this moment).  "OK, well, just...delay her as much as possible," I said as I threw my shirt/dust rag onto a dining room chair and headed into the bathroom, where I immediately grabbed wipes underneath the sink.

In my classy jeans/bra uniform, I quickly wiped down the toilet, flushed it, straightened the shower curtain, and started wiping down the sink.  I had just started switching out the dirty hand towels when I heard our front door slam.  I heard a woman's voice and froze - there were dirty towels on the floor, I hadn't cleaned the mirror, and - most importantly - I WAS NOT WEARING A SHIRT.  Nor was I in the same ROOM as that shirt.

"Pres?"  I called out.  No answer.  And then, as I heard the dogs scurrying around the apartment, I heard my mother-in-law's voice coming closer to me.  She was coming into the dining room.  Shit.  I ducked out of the bathroom, grabbed my shirt (the shirt that had, moments ago, been a DUST RAG), tried to shake out the caked-on dust over the bathtub, and put the filthy shirt back on - the right hand sleeve still rolled up to the elbow to hide all the dust.  I had just closed the bathroom door when I heard my mother-in-law talking and setting something down on the dining room table - I was safe, but oof.  It was a very narrow escape.

And that, lovely internet, is an example of how not to clean for your in-laws' visit.  On the other hand, if you ever run out of dusting cloths, you should know that long-sleeved t-shirts have LOTS of surface area with which to clean.  You know, just for future reference.