Feckin' entropy

It’s Friday. Five days into Sore Footsville. The sink is full of dirty dishes. The countertop is full of dirty dishes and filthy pots and pans.

Laundry is piling up again. Debris is starting to gather on the floor.

I am physically incapable of doing a damn thing about it.

Hubby and Shiftless are working late every night. The only person I can rely on to do anything is Mayhem.

Mayhem’s 10. He’d much rather be tooling about with fun things than fartarsing around with boring old housework. Which is why it’s all mounting up.

I am feeling very, very incredibly useless. I’m broken.

Past time to pack me up and get a new housewife.

Four days until Valentines and I’m worse than useless. I can’t even welcome my hubby home to a clean house.

I can’t give him anything. He says he’s okay with that, but…

I know I wouldn’t be okay.

I have four days, less, to find something. Anything. That doesn’t end up making me a pack of worthlessness in his eyes. His eyes are where I find all my value.

Four days. And no feet.