I have spent the last two days shampooing carpets. When I bought this house I had a toddler, a healthy husband and a well behaved cat. So, I put beige carpet throughout the house except in the family room where I put oatmeal colored Berber. That was probably not smart. Seven years later, I have two kids, a dog I have housebroken and a cat who regularly gets pissed off and uses my carpet as a litter box. My color scheme for the carpets can now be considered certifiable. Nurses are germaphobes; this is is an indisputable fact. After being forced to take microbiology, swabbing common items and appliances and then watching whatever critters grow to apocalyptic proportions, you would be too. This is why I would rather tumble down a flight of stairs, arms flailing like the most uncoordinated of dancers with St. Vitus' Dance than touch a handrail. Shopping cart handles are a hyperventilating thrill ride. Don't judge me. My point here is that shampooing my carpets has put me into a tailspin of ocd-ism. For all my comments of the house being a wreck and it looking as though my children are being raised by wolves, I do, fairly regularly, clean my house. Not that you could tell from what is reclaimed from the carpet shampooer. Yikes. And since I paid the gross national product of a developing country for my vacuum cleaner, why the hell could I knit an afghan from all the dog/cat hair I'm getting. Yerg. I'm covering everything with plastic. Including the kids.
Did you know on this date in 1775 King George declared that the American colonies were in open and avowed rebellion?
And he would have been 39 today:
How'd ya like a pair of these?
The Flexaril is kicking in...