The only deep thought I'm having right now as I hobble around on my one good leg attempting to clean this damn house in preparation for Skippy's visit is "WHY IN THE HELL DO I NEED A HOUSE THIS SIZE?" PEOPLE WITH HOUSES THIS SIZE NORMALLY HAVE CLEANING LADIES. AS I AM FORMERLY FABULOUS, I AM THE CLEANING LADY. AND IT SUCKS. As has been established, I freaking HATE cleaning. And no, smarties, not everybody hates cleaning. I know some freaks that love it. I'm not one of 'em. I am utterly and completely overwhelmed and am close to hopping on the back of the garbage truck with Gilberto (his real name....not a racial stereo-type, so no angry letters please. And don't ask me why I know what my super hot sanitation engineer's name is) when he rolls by. What's that? It's not trash day? Shit. What if I claim I've been really sick and that's why the house is such a sty? Although the fact that I'd pop right up when it was time for the drinkin' to commence might be suspicious. Dang. Foiled again. The dog ate all of the cleaning supplies? That's actually somewhat believable. Wait a second. Lightbulb! How 'bout if I combine ammonia and bleach and am found passed out on the bathroom floor wearing rubber gloves?! Clutching a toilet brush? Then I'd be some sort of cleaning martyr. That would be $%&ing AWESOME. Problem solved. I'll report back if I have any synapses still snapping after my little stint as "Chemical Mol-lie". God, I'm good.