Excuse the mess, but we live here.
I'm not going to vacuum 'til Sears makes one you can ride on.
Mary: Are you my servant? Martha: I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant, and she's Lord Craven's, but I will be doing some upstairs housekeeping and waiting on you a bit. Mary: Waiting on me makes you my servant, then.
Cleanliness is not next to godliness. It isn't even in the same neighborhood. No one has ever gotten a religious experience out of removing burned-on cheese from the grill of the toaster oven.
All of us have moments in out lives that test our courage. Taking children into a house with a white carpet is one of them.
My idea of super woman is someone who scrubs her own floors.
No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.
He wrote on a piece of paper with his pencil. Psychosis: out of touch with reality. Since then, I have been trying to find out what reality is, so that I can touch it.
Housework can kill you if done right.
No woman gets an orgasm from shining the kitchen floor.
This mess is too big and too deep and to tall. We can't clean it up! We can't clean it up at all!
Sometimes I want to clean up my desk and go out and say,
Each suburban wife struggles with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, chauffeured Cub Scouts and Brownies, lay beside her husband at night- she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question-- 'Is this all?
Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop-offs at tedium and counter productivity.
I don't know why no one ever thought to paste a label on the toilet-tissue spindle giving 1-2-3 directions for replacing the tissue on it. Then everyone in the house would know what Mama knows.
I've buried a lot of my laundry in the back yard.
The boat was vacuum-packed with Albanians, four generations to a family: great-grandmother, air-dried like a chilli pepper, deep red skin and a hot temper; grandmother, all sun-dried tomato, tough, chewy, skin split with the heat; getting the kids to rub olive oil into her arms; mother, moist as a purple fig, open everywhere - blouse, skirt, mouth, eyes, a wide-open woman, lips licking the salt spray flying from the open boat. Then there were the kids, aged four and six, a couple of squirs, zesty as lemons.
Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing.
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