Yesterday my mom looked in my microwave and dramatically exclaimed, “Oh, Janet, you cannot live like this.”
I can’t understand how somebody can get so melodramatic over a little splattered barbeque sauce, but it must have really disturbed her because she showed up today with a mop, some rags, and a big bottle of Pine-Sol and set to work like some Army General running a Spic and Span Boot Camp.
She made me clean. She made me scrub. She made me wash and fold and vacuum. She made me move furniture so I could vacuum under it.
Y’all, she made me put my hand in the toilet.
This was cleaning that was so serious that I did not wear my new polka dotted apron because it would have totally gotten dirty.
As I was folding (Keep folding! Keep folding!), my mom was cleaning behind my bedside table where she found a drinking straw that was the vestige of some beverage that I was probably drinking while reading in bed (I drink absolutely everything with a straw).
She held up the straw and inquired, “Are you using cocaine?”
Funny, she was way more dramatic about the dirty microwave than the cocaine.