Dear Dave: I want a maid for Christmas. And I want that maid to be you. And I really just mean stop leaving your shoes under MY side of the bed.

A normal person would brag about Dave's cousin being in the NFL, and how his family's coming up this weekend to see the Raiders play the Packers, and yay, football.

But I'm not going to the game because I'd rather poke my eye out with a stick than watch football, especially in snow. And "special teams" doesn't mean much to me, despite it being neat knowing that I sorta, kinda know someone in the NFL. Wow.

What's stressing me out is my messy house. And my inability to stay awake past 8 p.m. And the fact that when I say "messy," I mean messy for real this time. Not "Erin's being crazy about that book not being in the library bin again." No, this time I really mean "my mother would be so angry if she saw this."

So as I swept today, fully knowing I was going to leave a note for Dave saying "Dave's to do list for Wednesday: Sweep/ mop, laundry, vacuum, fold laundry, dishes, put away laundry -- all of it," I got so tired I actually had to sit down.

Loooooser.

Which is why I'm blogging with the broom beside me. Ha. I live so scandalously.