How many times?!

Yesterday, I cleaned the house a bit. I spent most of my time thoroughly cleaning the kitchen as it got quite a work-out this past week. I scrubbed, I scoured and yes, I mopped.

I mopped, as it turns out, 6 times.

Not all at once. I did it the first time when I cleaned the rest of the kitchen. And when I put down my mop, I felt the satisfaction of having created myself a lovely and pristine kitchen.

And then my husband decided it was time to make a fried egg sandwich and drop the plate with the goopy eggs on the floor.

So I mopped again. And still felt pretty good. Mostly because I knew my husband wouldn't need to return to my clean kitchen for at least an hour or two.

But then Munchkin decided that he should pour himself a class of juice. I'm not sure where he was aiming -- and in fairness, the juice bottle is quite heavy -- but there was only a quarter inch in his cup and a full inch flooding the kitchen floor.

So I mopped again.

Then the landlord stopped by to check the pipes and tracked mud all over the living room and kitchen.

So I mopped again, this time getting to add the pleasure of also mopping the living room. Yeah, me!

Then it was time for CPT Dick to return to the kitchen. He needed a beer and forgot to mind the overspray. I was beginning to wonder if I should just attach some mopping cloths to the bottom of my slippers AND NEVER TAKE THEM OFF.

But that wouldn't help with chunks, now would it?

And to test it, my son created the mopping piece de resistance -- he returned and decided that creating a white grape wading pool was not good enough. Oh, no. After all, where's the challenge in that? So, after gorging himself on potato chips (that his father gave him against my wishes), he spewed all over. On the floor, on the cabinets, under the fridge. He even managed to get some puke on the mop itself.

So -- you guessed it -- I mopped again. After spending an inordinate amount of time wiping up little bits of potato chippy goodness so I could mop.

Talk about an exercise in futility! No wonder my house looks like a train ran through it most days. As soon as I get something clean, I have a two man demolition team to make sure it doesn't remain that way for very long.

Neil Young had it all wrong. A man doesn't need a maid. A woman does.

Unless I'm the maid and just proved his point. And that's just too depressing to consider.