In my next life, I am going to become a world-famous scientist, and win the Nobel prize for the discovery of the strand of DNA that is responsible for the following:
The Scene: GreenTuna's Living Room, filled with general TinyTuna clutter from the past several days. GreenTuna enters, and starts picking up shoes, socks, pencils and other pieces of detrius scattered around the room. TinyTuna enters from her bedroom and sees her mother picking up her things. Before 7:15am. The instinctual warning sirens of a 9-year old begin to sound. TinyTuna begins moving quickly, in an attempt to look busy. GreenTuna is not buying it. In a last ditch effort, she looks at me, loaded down with her junk, and says, "I was just about to do that....."
I was just about to do that. Ohhh... If only I had waited that extra nanosecond, I wouldn't have had to handle petrified socks. Somehow I should have known that the magic hour of clutter was removal was forty seven hours and thirty minutes, not forty seven hours and twenty nine minutes. Silly me.
I was just about to do that. Through this one little sentence (dripping with self-righteous indignation) TinyTuna takes great pains to point out that I do a lot more work than necessary. So any frustration I may be feeling is entirely misplaced. I shouldn't be unhappy that our current home decor consists of crumb-filled plates, empty juice boxes and old socks. I shouldn't be annoyed at all the time, energy and back strain I incur in an effort to blaze a trail through my house. Oh no. In this case, frustration is my own damn fault, because I jumped the gun and was too impatient. If I had only known.
I was just about to do that is the defense of the desperate. It is a fourth-down, pint-sized "Hail Mary" pass to Mr. Clean, which (as a public service announcement to the youngsters in the crowd) always comes up short. So, TinyTuna is forced to scramble. This generally involves picking up, and moving or straightening anything nearby to make her claim appear somehow legitimate.
Since I have been unable to solve my own case of bad timing, I've decided to come up with an offensive plan. TinyTuna? Meet dances with trash bags and threats. Maybe that will cure our current outbreak of Colonial Clutter.
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