Don't hate me because my house is clean

To those visitors to The House of Crazy—past, present, and future—I offer you an apology. I have a terrible, obnoxious habit to which I must confess.

You know when you call me and I say, "Sure, come over, but my house is a total disaster"? And then you come over, and it's reasonably tidy and clean? And then you think either a) I'm a totally insane neatfreak who clearly has no idea what a disaster is, or b) I'm a disingenuous asshole?

So this is what happens. I hang up the phone, look around and say, "Wow, this place really is a total disaster. I'm kind of embarrassed about it, actually. Maybe I'll just tidy up a bit." So I order the children to start picking up toys, and I start straightening the myriad piles of crap on the counter, and then I think, "Hmm, there sure is a lot of crap on the counter. Maybe I should sort it. Or maybe just shove it in the cookbook cupboard." Then I see that the counters are actually relatively filthy, so I give them a couple of spritzes and wipes. Then I see the carpet without the layer of toys—for the first time in days, I might add—and I say, "Wow, this carpet is really filthy. Maybe I ought to get out the vacuum."

And so it goes. If you come over within the hour, I won't have made much progress. If you take much longer, the place may actually look presentable by the time you get here.

So here's the moral of the story: don't call first. Just come on over. Revel with me in the piles of crap and the baskets overflowing with unfolded laundry. I hate housework, so I'll thank you for it.