A step up in the world

Would somebody please explain to me the genetic make-up of a dust bunny? They multiply like mice and defy capture.
I’ve chased the same balls of mystery fuzz from one room to another, picked them up with my fingers and headed for the garbage can, only to find three-quarters of my catch missing by the time I opened the lid.
And what’s with the mass assembly of them under my fridge and television stand? It doesn’t matter what kind of sucking power my vacuum cleaner has, dust bunnies somehow revolt with a force field impervious to strategic attack.
I’ve been faced with these and other household gremlins during the clean sweep and “prep” before painting. As if the time-sucking chore of moving furniture, draping, plastering, sanding, and taping off isn’t enough of a bother.
I set up the ladder the other day in the kitchen and ventured where no man had gone before—to prep the ceiling-to-wall behind the cupboards. The space on top was a haven for the thousand knick-knacks I couldn’t fit anywhere else that had to come down before I painted.
To my surprise, also, was a box of chocolates I’d hidden up there before Valentine’s Day and forgot about. Alone and vulnerable, I opened the lid to shovel in a much-needed sugar fix only to find every one of the little pleasures white and hairy.
Death by chocolate was no longer an option.
Everything else on top of the cupboard was glued down with some sort of atmospheric super glue that looked like grey fur and felt like bacon grease. What’s up with that?
I cook bacon maybe twice a year and rarely fry anything else. And I almost needed a crowbar to pry the wine glasses from the position they’ve held on an open shelf.
Guess I need to crack a Valpolicella a little more often.
And remember those dishwasher soap commercials from a few years ago that featured the quintessential housewife in dress pants showing off a gleaming, clean wine glass?
Well, my goblets haven’t got a hope in Hades of passing the “spotless” test, either. I have neither a dishwasher nor a water softener in this country life. And while Pete is a dish, he is not a dishwasher.
Maybe I really do need that little French maid he keeps asking for.
Fly poop is another peeve. How flies manage to poop upside down on the ceiling is beyond me. All I know is that I hate scrubbing off the telltale tracks.
It also never fails, while I am at the top of ladder perched tortuously to reach a remote corner, that incidents I cannot control occur at ground zero. If I would just learn not to look, I’d be a whole lot better off.
This thought comes after the corner of my eye caught a glimpse of “Ozzie” the cat in terror mode sprinting by the kitchen window outside, chased by “Griffon,” who bolted past cloaked in an old bed sheet and headed blindly for the flower bed.
Suddenly gardening was on my afternoon agenda.
Some time later, “Dot” skulked by. Given the look of her fur, I knew she’d had an involuntary encounter with Daughter #3 and a pair of scissors (hairdressing school is off the list of post-secondary career choices).
And I will never again, while standing on a ladder in the bathroom painting the ceiling, turn around and catch another glimpse of my behind in the mirror.
Too much information.

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