2005-07-29
a french invasion of THE PIT OF DESPAIR AND LOST PANTIES
Ahh Fridays. TGIF everyone!
Since it is that time of year again, and especially since this will be my last full summer here before college, I have to once again face the daunting task of cleaning THE PIT OF DESPAIR AND LOST PANTIES. If you were a reader last year, you remember well the horror of cleaning THE PIT. If you were not a reader back then, feel free to read about it now in the archives.
My room, over the past eighteen years and five house changes, has never been clean. Never. Not even when I was too young to know how to leave dirty clothes on the floor. Something in my room has always been lying around in wait for someone[mostly Miss Linguist] to trip over. There have always been clothes strewn about gathering wrinkles like a stump gathers moss. Bottom line:my room has always resembled the wake of a natural disaster of epic proportions.
So, every summer I try and clean THE PIT due to Miss Linguist's constant kvetching about it. And this it's different because she keeps threatening that if I don't clean THE PIT now, when I come back Thanksgiving break I will be shocked to find I have not a room left to sleep in. What she would do with an extra room I don't know. Perhaps store her many shoe knickknacks things in that people keep giving her for her birthday, xmas, etc. I don't know whether or not to believe her since she's been threatening many things over the years and has never come through, but all the same, every year I try.
I am not a domestic diva in the least. There are certain times when cleaning is necessary[when the cats gak all over the newly polished hardwood floors, when i've just gone through a horrible breakup and need to relieve stress]. That's when the cleaning genes my grandmother mistakenly didn't pass on to Miss Linguist kick in for me. I guess that kind of thing skips a generation like certain cancer.
When this feeling hits I break out music and clean like there is no tomorrow. Now, I am not one of those hip young teenagers that blasts Destiny's Child and pretends she's the white equivalent to Beyonce while mopping. No no. Instead I blast...wait for it...wait for it...Jesus Christ Superstar while cleaning. Showtunes of any kind actually. But there's something particular and unidentifiable about a good Andrew Lloyd Weber rock opera about the saviour that gets the adrenaline pumping through my-now-Martha Stewartesque arms.
In other news: The French invade my small town on Sunday. Relatives of Miss Linguist are coming to town to visit. I mean, they are really French. They speak good French[with the sezzy franch axzent]. They eat French cuisine. They've been to Paris and found it boring. They make that funny noise when they laugh. They wear berets. Holy G-unit! Ok, ok so they probably do none of the above, but still. It's going to be a blast. Now wish me luck because even though I have been reading and practicing with my french phrase a day calendar, the only phrase i can sucessfully pull off is where are the restrooms. oy.
oh no. mr. and mrs. bicker have bought a piano for the devil children. is there no limit to how much torture they can withstand from those hellions? or how much they are willing to put us through? now i will be hearing the c scale and hot cross buns being banged into a keyboard at eighty decibels day and night. hmmm, i think jesus is just going to have to sing a lot louder...evil snicker.
quote of day:"french people! french people! viva la french people!"-[moi]--yeah i probably chanted that, fist raised at random times yesterday...
french phrase de jour: Il écrit un roman(eel-eh-kree eh(n) roh-man(n))He's writing a novel--lucky bastard, i'm stuck waistdeep in THE PIT OF DESPAIR AND LOST PANTIES...well i will be