Thanksgiving Postscript

This Thanksgiving was different.

My guest from a foreign land arrived in Richmond on time, two days before Thanksgiving. The next day she decided to clean my house, and I was somehow roped into helping. I really couldn't not help her, because it was, after all, my house, so I felt more or less obligated to pitch in. We worked all day and got the first floor clean and orderly. The next day was Thanksgiving, and I prepared the meal, which entailed heating vegetables. I also microwaved sweet potatoes, mashed them, and added brown sugar, cinnamon, and butter. They were delicious. I winged the recipe but, apparently, it's hard to mess up sweet potatoes.

The next day we went to Walmart and commenced shopping for various items, some of which were needed if we expected to eat again, and some of which she wanted to take to her home. We argued briefly over who was going to pay for her purchases. I wanted to pay, but she insisted that because she was buying things for herself, she should pay. The way I saw it, if someone flies 4,000 miles round-trip to visit me on their dime, the least I can do is pay for their Walmart purchases. (Never let it be said that I didn't do the least I could do.) But she wasn't having it.

When we got home from our shopping outing, she cleaned my bathroom, which she hadn't gotten around to cleaning the previous day. While she cleaned, I took a nap. The thought that I should help with cleaning the bathroom tried to enter my mind, but I am adept at keeping such thoughts out of my head. 

The next day we cleaned and organized the second floor of the house. By "we," I, of course, mean "she," mostly, but I helped as much as I could by staying out of her way. What is this obsession with living in clean houses? I already miss the dust bunnies that used to live beneath every item of furniture in my house. Dust bunnies are the closest thing I have for a pet.

Now, I finally have time to add a few words to my blog, only because my guest is at the mall buying goodness-knows-what. I would gladly keep her company as she shops, but she knows very well how that would go:

"When do we go?"

"I have to go to the doohickey department and look for a thingamajig. 

"When do we go?"

"Calm down, we just got here."

"When do we go?"

"Ay, Chihuahua, you are making me crazy."

"When do we go?"

"Son of a biscuit eater!"

"When do we go?"

So I drop her off at the mall and I go home. It's better for her. It's better for me.