Jan 9, 2008

Every day is poker night for dust-bunnies at my home

Self-portrait of an artist tracking down dust-bunnies

No matter how hard I try to balance a job, a family and a household, the infidels known as dust bunnies have a way of breaking my spirit and rendering all my house-keeping efforts useless.

Enigmatically, the sound of the doorbell seems to call this grey stuff out of its hiding, like a voodoo chant that arouses zombies from their crypts.

I bite my lip to control the gasp let loose by that annoying conventional housewife in me (who, by the way, refuses to just shut up - die - leave me in peace). I cringe at the thought my visitor may witness "The Fluff", that peeps out from behind furniture legs and then ...THEN... has the audacity to casually drift across the living room floor like a wind-swept sagebrush/prop from a spaghetti Western. [insert background music of OST "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly"]

I cringe and wordlessly repeat my "please don't look down" mantra, hoping visitor's brain waves will unconsciously obey. By the time I maneuver myself near enough to stomp on dust-bunny and avoid the embarrassment of the moment, it has disappeared again!

Aaaargh! I have no idea where this STUFF comes from, how they form, who their leader is. They obviously retreat to an underground refuge colony while I vacuum and are trained to appear only before house guests.

They are mocking me. I need to find their clandestine hide-out before they evolve, multiply and start grabbing my guests' ankles, yelping what a terrible house cleaner I am.