Please excuse our dust

I've got a whole new predicament this weekend. We're getting a visitor ... but I won't be here.

Duhn, duhn, duhn. Where are "Unsolved Mysteries" and Robert Stack now??!

It's my soon-to-be mother-in-law. No mystery. She's cooooming. On a jet plane. Flying in and landing when I hope (fingers crossed, my friends) to be somewhere crossing the Illinois state line. (Fingers crossed meaning I hope I get to leave work, not I hope I miss her. I like her, guys.)

But still -- it's like when my mom came. The apartment can't be dirty. Oh, my god -- and my fiance has to keep the place clean all by himself? I cannot completely feel comfortable about him not burning the place down by leaving the oven on or something, let alone keep it clean. Oh, my.

Before my mom came, I was dusting, vacuuming, doing laundry, sweeping, cleaning the bathrooms ... I went pretty crazy. Can't let Mom think I don't take care of my own apartment. Now, I feel an obligation to have the place be even cleaner, but I can't really say I've got that kind of time this week. I've got a lot of work to do ... I want to sneak out of work early Friday. I want to sleep at night. I want to blog. Ha.

But I want the place to smell like lemons and Pine Sol ... And I don't even have Pine Sol ... Wait. There it is. Yes I do. Make that read "Apparently I've not used that bottle since college."

Cleaning, not cleaning, tusting him to clean ... What a conundrum. And I don't even think she'll mind. She's not like that. But I am like that. If I had time, I'd get an ulcer over it. But, let's face it, I'm just not going to get around to worrying like that. It'll be Monday, and I'll come home to a dirty apartment, and remember that I forgot to worry.

(Photo: Funkyfridge.com.)