So, Kevin and I are having the proverbial fuckload of people over tomorrow…
What started as an idle “Oh, I want to make tacos” has exploded into a smallish horde descending upon my tiny little apartment. I think my thoughts went something like this…
Tacos are good.
Let’s make tacos.
Whenever I make tacos, there are always tons of leftovers, if I’m just making for Kevin and I.
Leftovers go bad in the fridge.
Let’s invite a few people over.
Um… ok, so I lose track of it after that, but there are somewhere around five (maybe six?) adults and one toddler headed to my apartment expecting food and social-stuff.
That’s fine. Except Kevin has this hissy-fit thing about the house being clean if we’re expecting more than one or two guests. Particularly if it’s someone who hasn’t been here before, or who doesn’t come over often. Which is fine, and the house needs a bit of a pick-up anyway.
We’re almost wrapped up with the cleaning (dishes, trash, sweep, mop, pickup clutter…) and Kevin’s dragging our old Kenmore out into the living room. This vacuum, you must understand, is as old as our marriage. I had a vacuum in college that burst into flames shortly before Matt and I broke up, and the one I bought to replace it burned out about four months before Kevin and I got married.
Kevin’s mom bought us one for our wedding present and tonight, at 10pm, gave up the ghost. So, Kevin meddled with it for a while, took out enough cat and human hair to make a large dog, and it still wouldn’t go.
So… 10:30 at night and I’m driving to the Wal-mart to buy a new vacuum. (Because you know, once you get half the room vacuumed, you need to do the rest of the job…) I end up standing next to this fretting grandmother, who’s son’s wife hates her guts and is bringing over the new 2 week old baby and has said that if there’s a speck – a SPECK, mind you – of dog hair on the sofa, she’s taking the baby away and not going over there again, because babies are so sensitive that way. (Poor Jesus, it’s a wonder he got to the Cross at all, being born in a barn, you know!) (Why is it that I always end up talking to the nutjobs at the store?) (Why did I feel the need to have four parentheticals in one sentence??)
So, now I have a new vacuum. And a really… really… REALLY clean floor. So people can come over and drop taco bits all over it.