No, this is not a Dutch Masters still life. These are sheets from my lint roller. But thank you for asking.
In case you're wondering, they are all coated with my dog's hair. And all collected in one place -- the living room sofa. More on this later.
There are 16 of sheets in all. This is, I'm embarrassed to admit, a new Bermtopian record.
I should be arrested. Or fired. Or both. For heinous crimes against good housekeeping.
I hate cleaning house. I love gardening, messing around in the kitchen, feeding people, doing laundry, folding clothes, organizing cupboards, creating Goodwill piles, but I do hate cleaning house.
Never the less, this weekend, I cleaned house. A funny weather pattern trapped us indoors for a day, thanks to a continuous string of thunder and lightning storms and accompanying downpours of rain (some approaching Biblical proportions).
I had no choice (well, I did actually. . . I could've made marathoned Food Network and HGTV for a day, but when I realized I could blog in the dust on my computer desk, my sense of duty prevailed). I started upstairs and worked my way down, wrapping up this epic two-day sanitary crusade late this morning, armed and dangerous with a lint roller facing down the sofa.
About the sofa. And Ben, our dog. And the fur. Here's the story.
Ben starts each day with a walk. From the moment we wake up, he is beside himself, barely able to contain his anticipation. Without fail, as soon as Ben hits the living room floor, he dances across the hardwood floors, making a beeline to the sofa where he presses against its rolled arm rubbing his back, head thrown back in pure canine ecstasy, all while emitting enthusiastic "ruffs" and "huffs" -- his equivalent, I think, of "Let's get this show on the road."
Trust me, it's charming. At least I think so.
And that's where the fur comes from.
But 16 sheets? What the heck?
Upon closer examination, the answer is readily apparent. It appears Ben now, at some point in the day, continues his back-rubbing ritual ALL THE WAY AROUND the sofa. Somehow, I visualize this tap dance to be some a doggy declaration of disappointment at the moment we walk out the door to work or errands, once again abandoning Ben to his own devices. Basically, it's a "Take that, suckahhhs" in fur.
OK. The fact I haven't touched up said piece of furniture in, say, about six months might also be a contributing factor. Just a minor one.
Upshot: House is (mostly) squeaky clean.
I'm exhausted. I need a vacation. Please send help. And more lint rollers.