Pining for a bed that’s not mine so I don’t have to make it.

It’s probably the fumes emanating from the spray cleaner, but I’m questioning my sanity. Specifically, my sadomasochistic tendency to “deep” clean before company arrives. What possessed me to climb a ladder and scrub the molding on 9’ ceilings? Or vacuum the partition door? Or reorganize the pantry, the larder, and the cupboards—at the same time. I don’t even cook in this kitchen. Why am I scowling at the oven considering which carcinogenic foam I should use next?

It’s probably just the fumes talking, but I’m pining for a hotel room. With room service. And maid service. And views.  Someplace warm and cozy and not particularly invested in tradition.  Someplace that has never even heard of cranberries, except to mix them with vodka and serve with a swizzle stick.

But try as I might, there isn’t a hotel room in my near future. So I’m cleaning. Deep cleaning. Scrubbing and scouring and working up a mighty fine case of dish-pan hands. I just had go and offer to host Thanksgiving Dinner. I’m not sure what came over me. I’d blame it on the cleaning fumes, but heaven only knows what I was smoking then.