I have a date for the biopsy: April 20th. It’s a week and a half away, so I’ve got plenty of time to try to clean house (ha!) between now and then. The surgeon’s office manager said that the results of the biopsy should be available on the Tuesday after the biopsy, so I should know two weeks from today.
The reason I say clean house between now and then is because my darling friend M wants to come visit me when I’m lolling around at home after the procedure. My gut instinct is to say no. Not because I don’t love her madly–I do. When I call her my darling friend M, that’s without even the slightest hint of sarcasm. She’s the funniest, kookiest person imaginable. Anyway, no, the reason I wanted to say no was because my home is a hovel. And I’m too ashamed to let anyone I love see the way I live. But then my better nature got the best of me, as often happens, and I said that would be lovely.
Here’s how the thought process went: I have a week and a half until the biopsy. That means a week and a half of feeling sorry for myself. I’ve only got like 3 or 4 books that I’ve saved to read that weekend, and if I’m just sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I’ll read them. And I don’t have enough money to spare to go buy more books. And I really do want to have a clean house. And I HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE doing housework. Housework sucks. And if I’m so busy doing housework and griping about how much I hate cleaning house, maybe I won’t have enough energy to feel sorry for myself so much. And I deserve a clean house. I happen to think everyone deserves a clean house. I mean, I don’t live in a hovel because I like it. I live in a hovel because I hate doing housework with a passion.
I was meant to be fabulously wealthy, and have enough money to pay people plenty of money to do my housework for me, only something went wrong somewhere and I’m not fabulously wealthy. So no money to pay people plenty of money to do the housework. And I have a husband who does some of the housework, because he loves me, and once in a while I manage to force myself to do some, but ugh I hate it! And my loathing for it is compounded by the fact that we live in a 50+-year-old house that was in bad shape when we bought it. We’ve made some improvements, but trust me when I say there is room for many, many more improvements. Improvements that take mucho dinero. And there you are again. If we had the money for the improvements, we’d also have the money for the people to do the cleaning, and I wouldn’t be in this predicament. But then I’d have the time to sit around and feel sorry for myself. But then I could read the books that I’m saving for next weekend, because I’d have the money to buy more books that I hadn’t read yet, so I suppose it’d all work out one way or another. But it’s a moot point. Because I don’t.
Last night I spent a few shekels of my hard-earned allowance on a pink towel, a pink and old-gold striped goblet, and a pink candle, and took a lazy bath. It was nice. I heart TJ Maxx, where one can buy designer brand pink towels and pink and old-gold striped goblets for much less than if one bought them at the department stores, and then go home and take lazy baths. I didn’t read anything in the tub except the Reader’s Digest that came yesterday, because, well, yeah, I’m saving the unread books for when I’m lolling around the house after the biopsy.
Okay, well, see, Reader’s Digest. That was an act of charity. I have a friend at work who has two daughters, and one of them was doing one of those infernal school fundraisers where you subscribe to magazines. And at the time I already subscribed to all the magazines I wanted to get, but I wanted to help my friend’s kid. So I got Reader’s Digest because it was the cheapest. It’s never been my reading of choice. But it is convenient bathtub reading–it’s not as large as a regular magazine, so it’s not as unwieldy, and if it falls into the tub it’s no great loss.
Listen to me blather on about nothing at all. Anybody wanna come clean my filthy hovel with me? I’m joking, of course, because the only person I’d even THINK about letting into my filthy hovel is my sister, and she’s way, way, way too busy to even think about coming to my filthy hovel. I suppose I’d think about letting Clover into my filthy hovel, but she’s also way, way, way too busy to even think about coming to my filthy hovel. Besides, she’s got her own house. It’s not a filthy hovel by any stretch of the imagination, but she does have 5 kids, 4 of them boys, so she has her own challenges definitely. And I didn’t help matters any by taking each of her 5 kids a basketful of chocolate Sunday.