Miss Haversham’s

I know, I know. My first post in weeks, and it has to be an ad, right? It’s all true, though.

“Dad, how about a little light in here.” “Oh, sure. The blinds are all down because your mother wanted it that way. I don’t mind, though.” So, I give it a good yank, and the son of a bitch not only unrolls all the way, it tears off the roller. I never could get the hang of those damn things, anyway. I’m afraid to touch any of the others – they look like they’ll disintegrate.

There is some improvement, though. The discarded top rack to a dishwasher long-forgotten has been removed from the master bedroom(!) and discarded. We’ve gotten the giant rusting industrial janitor’s floor-washing bucket – you know, the kind with the rollers to squeegee a rope mop? – out of the living room(!) and into the trash dumpster. “Hey! Where are you going with that? That’s a great bucket. I used that to wash the floors all the time. It’s useful!” “Dad, this apartment is 95% carpeted, and when was the last time you washed the floor? Does your aide use it when he washes the floor?” “No. He uses the Swiffer.” “Say goodbye to the bucket, Dad.”

We count every six square inches recovered as a victory. You can now walk from the front door and the kitchen through the living room without barking your shins on anything. Mostly.