As I bopped out of my local coffee shop gripping my extra large mocha, I saw a familiar looking man standing with a camera crew on the corner of our town square. I had seen his face on television! It was Emeril! You know, the famous chef, Emeril Lagasse!
I was so excited I nearly dropped my coffee, which would have been a tragedy of epic proportion! I didn’t. Fortunately, I regained my aplomb.
Being me, I waltzed right up to him and started talking. I asked why he was in town, and he said they were shooting some clips for a segment of his show on Texas cuisine, but he had a problem. It seems that the woman whose kitchen was to be used had come down with the flu, and he needed another kitchen. Would I be interested in having the crew look at MY kitchen?
My smile froze on my face, as I remembered the dirty dishes I had left piled in my sink; the afghan squares plopped on the counter (waiting for me to take their picture); the six day old bowl of cherry jello that was hardening into a lethal weapon in the refrigerator; the vegetable bin with carrots that have taken root! I started to shriek!
That’s when I woke up!
Yes, friends, it was a dream. Emeril was not in Denton, Texas. No celebrity wants to use my kitchen (although it could happen, because I told you about the movie filmed in my son’s apartment)! I have an overly reactive guilt response, and I have to face it: I haven’t been keeping the house the way I want it to be.
I will give myself some credit. What I consider “messy” is better than what some people consider “clean.” My house wouldn’t do for a magazine spread, or anything. I don’t mind it looking as if someone actually lives here. But, I want it to feel comfortable to me, and that means keeping it straightened up and relatively clean. I am not a bad housekeeper. Still, if the house is not “up to snuff,” I feel guilty. Then, my nightmares nag me. Do y’all have dreams like that, or am I weirder than I thought I was?
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you that.
The guilty dreams didn’t work this time, though. I didn’t get up and clean the refrigerator in the middle of the night. Therefore, my dreaming mind attacked me again.
The doorbell rang and the realtor was at the door with a prospective buyer who was very interested in the house. THE CAT LITTER BOX WAS OVERFLOWING!
Our house isn’t even for sale!
Throughout the night, as I tossed and turned and tried to sleep, a parade of dream people came knocking at the door. Even my ex-mother-in-law (who has been dead for years) showed up for a “white glove test!”
That did it.
Finally, I’d had enough. I got up and went to my Google Calendar on my computer. I spent thirty minutes writing “events” for today, with reminder e-mails to me. I made a game of it, though.
I wrote, “Emeril’s at the door, can he look in the fridge?” Or, “Martha is here and wants to chat. If she sits on your couch will her butt get covered in cat hair?” And, “A crew from House Beautiful wants to film…did you straighten the living room?”
It seems to have worked, because I’ve gotten the house somewhat back in order. At least, I’m not ashamed of it.
Now, I have to go clean the bathrooms, though. My next e-mail says,
“Queen Elizabeth has arrived.”
My guess is that she’ll want to sit on the “throne.”
Forever!
