I was at the hairdresser reading a magazine when I spotted an article about the inventor of the self-wringing Miracle Mop. Here was a gadget that could free me from the drudgery of housework. But the miracle for me would be if someone else actually used it. I find cleaning my house is as much fun as waiting on a long line at motor vehicle, watching paint dry, or better yet filing my taxes. I dread it. I’ve gone from being super mom, to Debbie Downer. I just can’t find the energy to do anything. I haven’t cooked a single meal in weeks.
I’m just not up to much these days. I haven’t done any laundry in months.
I’ve done nothing but eat bon-bons and watch reruns of the Wizard of Oz. I feel like a desperate housewife wishing there was a place over the rainbow without ring around the collar or under the toilet bowl. Brides have no idea what they’re getting into. On your wedding day, they should come clean and hand you a toilet brush and a bottle of clorox instead of a bouquet.
“Fork ’em over,” my oldest daughter said tugging on the pair of ruby red shoes I snatched from my youngest daughter’s dress-up box. You’re nuts, face it!” my oldest said as a dozen boxes of Judy Garland memorabilia I ordered on eBay arrived. “You need help,” she told me.
I thought I needed help with the dishes, but apparently that wasn’t what she had in mind. My doctor has been conducting tests, but my daughter doesn’t think he’s making progress. She asked the insurance company for a therapist. They suggested Dr. Harry Pillsberry.
“I must say this condition is a new one for me,” he said as he tugged on the stubble on his chin looking me up and down. I was still wearing the ruby red shoes. He muttered something about Yellow Brick Road fever. He told me that the fever had caused a brain malfunction and said it was common in guilt-ridden mothers who ignore their kids. “Do you believe that a broomstick will solve all of your problems?” he probed.
“I’m actually thinking of buying a miracle mop,” I said.