My neighbor has admitted that the laundry fairy may have suffocated in her laundry room.
Damn. So I guess that means I have to do it all myself.
Until the laundry fairy's demise can be confirmed, I am enacting a new policy: If it smells clean, it is clean. If it's iffy, spray it with Febreeze. If it's dirty, don't plan on wearing it anytime soon.
A good friend is helping me rustle up some high school-aged babysitters for my monkeys, but in the meantime she bailed me out. I'm not sure who will be more ready for bedtime, her or my kids. She's a helpful empty-nester like that.
I told her to stay away from my laundry. I know it's bad and my laundry room is frightening. I want her to respect me in the morning. And I'm not sure if any of Hubby's underwear has holes. And that's just sad.
So in retribution, she cleaned up my kitchen and even LIT A CANDLE. Hubby raised an eyebrow as he looked around. I assured him it wasn't me. Dummy said without thinking, "Yeah I noticed."
Don't worry. He will pay for that one.
I figured she stopped there, but oh no... Hubby and I went to the basement to watch basketball, I mean the State of the Union, I mean... uh... right. Anyhoo, I saw something I haven't seen in a long, long time.
The toy store yakkage that is normally covering every surface my little minions can reach - and some they can't - is neatly lined up against the wall. Like little angels were down here playing? Whuck? We may never play with those toys again. I may just have them come down here and sit on the floor to admire the neatness.
Either that or my friend needs to move in.
But not until I check our laundry for holes.