10 WHAT!!?!?

Our realtor called this morning to ask if another realtor could "preview" our house for a client.

"Of course," I said. "When?"

"In 10 minutes."

"Oh, shit," I said (paraphrased).

There are times in your life when you realize how far the apple really does fall from the tree. I used to call my mother Hurricane Marge for the way she would spin through a room cleaning, fluffing, dusting, leaving a sparkling, photo-shoot-ready room in her wake. Okay, technically that's more like a reverse hurricane creating order from chaos. If George Bush had only sent mom in after Hurricane Katrina, she might have secured a better place for him in history.

Once my mom found her longtime friend Dene, a friend who is more "terrestrial" in her housekeeping, on her knees peering under the bed in the guest room.

"What are you doing?" Mom asked.

Dene replied seriously, "Trying to find where the heck you keep the dirt."

That apple must have fallen somewhere else, because I did not inherit this trait. I leave a wake behind me that consists more of rumpled couches, fingerprints and dirty dishes and less of sparkle and shine. I've tried to convince my mother that low standards are much easier to maintain.

After I hung up the phone with the realtor, I flew through the house sweeping, washing, fluffing, but it was less Hurricane Marge and more Roseanne. In one quick swipe, all the contents of the kitchen counter were dumped into the silverware drawer. Random loose objects that were too large for the silverware drawer landed in the coat closet. As I was running around pushing the swiffer broom a huge roach ran out in front of me.

"AH, you little bug!" I shouted (paraphrased).

I swung the swiffer, flinging floor particles far and wide but missing the roach on the first try. I briefly considered stepping on it, but not in the fuzzy slippers I was wearing (completing a delightful winter ensemble of non-matching sweathshirt and sweatpants). Instead, I tried again with the swiffer and scored. His legs twitched as I pushed him along for the rest of the floor dusting. Off to the bedroom to make the bed, fluff the curtains, clean the mirror.

Nine minutes after the phone call, I slippped out of the sweatpants and into jeans just in time to hear the knock on the door.

I opened the door all smiles and calm, hoping they wouldn't notice the dust particles flying like confetti behind me, floating down onto the roach dancing to Beyonce's "Single Ladies."

UPDATE:
--someone is flying in from Atlanta to look at our business