Housework, and not even at my own house

It Looks Like You’re Digging A Grave! Is This A Business Grave, Or A Personal Grave?*

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I took the day off work today to get things ready for my mother to come home tomorrow. There was laundry to be done, dishes to be washed, clothes to be put away, a refrigerator to be cleaned out. Also, she wanted to make stew when she got home, so I needed to go to the grocery.

I got to the grocery. And I put in a load of wash, came back upstairs, and began folding clothes. I had my MacBook with me to have music to listen to, and I sorted it in order of length, which gives you a decidedly weird playlist. Mostly I listened to TV theme songs, introductions to songs (mostly Romanovsky & Phillips and Arlo Guthrie), and weird Beatles songs. (Nobody needs to hear Wild Honey Pie twice in a one morning.) My favorite moment was when, just after Arlo Guthrie told me about how he'd met this incredible songwriter who sang him this incredible song, and here was the song—and Love, American Style came on.

It takes so little to entertain me.

Anyway, for about eight hours I worked on putting away my mother's clothes, or getting them clean. I never got to the kitchen except to walk through it to go to and from the basement. I got two loads of wash done. Her drawers and closet are overflowing because she's been buying clothes through the mail but hasn't gotten rid of most of the stuff that doesn't fit anymore. We'll need to go through it, but in the meantime it all needs to be put someplace so she has her bed back.

I wanted to get this done so home would be nice when she came back to it.

She called me in the afternoon, but my phone battery was dead so I had it turned off. I called her back about four thirty. She wanted to know if I'd gotten her message yesterday (that she could leave at one tomorrow afternoon). I said, "Yesterday?" Because she hadn't left me a message yesterday, though we had talked.

Yes, she had called me yesterday to tell me she could go home at one o'clock today.

"Tomorrow," I said. "You left me the message earlier today. It's still Thursday."

Then she said some things I didn't understand, then she asked me what time it was.

"Four thirty," I said.

"Well, why don't you come over now?" she asked. "Why not?"

I have no idea what I was supposed to go over there for—to wait until tomorrow when she could leave? Just to visit? I don't know. I said, "Because I spent eight hours working at your house and I'm exhausted," I said.

"Well, fine," she said, and hung up on me.


I didn't call her back. What was I going to say? Your daughter is exhausted and depressed and sometimes barely functioning? Because that's what's going on. I'm supposed to be whoever she wants me to be at whatever moment and I don't want to play. And even if I did, I can't because I'm too fucking tired. I don't take care of myself as well as I take care of her. I'm doing my best, and if I'm not doing it with my best cheerleader enthusiasm, that's unfortunate. But wasting my energy faking enthusiasm is ridiculous when there is real stuff it needs to be used on.

Tomorrow the refrigerator. The rest of the clothes can go in a laundry basket in a corner. I'll get the dishes washed. At least I don't have to go back to the grocery.


*Hypothetical Clippy on Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me!