So yesterday I had one of those bursts of energy mixed with a little disgust at the condition of my house, in particular, my kitchen floors that were a bit sticky in spots.  Sticky and furry, because the sticky attracts the wayward dog hair that is always floating around.  So I cleaned. I cleaned a lot. 

Step 1: pick up all the stray toys that ALWAYS find their way on my kitchen floor. Racecars, trucks, balls, magnets, crayons...anything and everything ends up there.  "But Whitehousemom, I thought you had a playroom?"  Indeed, we do... which is just a half-flight of stairs away from the kitchen, so the toys seem to always find their way down the stairs into my kitchen. MY kitchen. The whole entire reason we bought this particular house was because it has a fabulous kitchen. It's mine damnit. That is the source of the great hatred I have towards those toys that ALWAYS end up in my kitchen. 

Step 2: Sweep the piles and piles of aforementioned dog hair into a single pile and accumulate enough fur to knit approximately 16 new dogs. 



Step 3: Get on my hands and knees and SCRUB each and every sticky spot individually because a mop will just coast right over them.  

Step 4: Mop the entire floor after the scrubbing is complete.  This is where the princess part comes in.  I had a little tantrum of sorts. My back was hurting. I was hot. Someone who shall remain nameless had already littered my floor with more toys. 



Enter Hub. "What's wrong?" 
Whitehousemom: "I hate this!!"
Hub: "Hate what?"
WHM: "This floor. Mopping. These damn toys. I should not have to do this!"  

(throws mop on the floor for full tantrum effect)

Apparently I was having a Princess Moment. I had deemed myself too good to be scrubbing crap off the floor.  I am smart! I went to college! I am talented! I have a lot to offer the world! I don't get paid for this! I don't get paid at all!  

Pout. Pout. Pout. 

Recover.

(pick up mop, resume chores)

I still want a freaking maid.