It’s all about the stuffing

I managed to get through the past weekend without a sea of cat barf. However, about half way through my lazy Saturday morning sporting pajamas, raccoon-eyes of mascara, and a “Bride of Frankenstein” hairdo I would have traded the incoming moment for something squishy between my toes.

My cellphone went off and I answered it to find the “FaceTime” video app open up and reveal my disheveled appearance to the person on the other end, whose first words were “Oh, Good Heavens, is that you?”

I could see myself in the little video clip in upper right hand corner of the screen staring wide-eyed and dumbfounded at the friend I hadn’t seen or heard from in years. I flipped the phone over so she could stare instead at the worn off toe nail polish of my big toe, and replied, with a much simulated inflection of joy, “What a nice surprise!” while making improper hand gestures with my free hand in the air above my head where she couldn’t see.

And then she said the most dreaded sentence on the planet. “I’m in town and I’d love to come for a visit.”

There’s nothing like an unexpected guest to kick-start a cleaning frenzy. It matters not that I run a tidy ship on most days, but when that yellow flag started waving as I stood there mired in clumps of old mascara all I could think of was cleaning the toilet seat and bowl before she showed up at the door and had to use the bathroom.

I looked around the kitchen and realized I was a hoarder. I had three days of dishes piled in the sink and there was so much dirty laundry in the basket that clothes at the bottom were now trying to escape through the webbing for fear of being crushed to death.

I had less than 30 minutes to revive my good looks and hide everything.

Remember the “Bugs Bunny Show” episode where “Wile E. Coyote” orders a humungous magnet from “Acme” but instead of drawing in the “Road Runner,” it attracts every conceivable metal object in the Universe?

The space under my kitchen sink attracts like that the stuff I don’t have time to put away properly and instead cram in that endless cavern alongside pickle jars full of nails, and hideous bolts of “Mac Tac” from the ’70s.

Even plastic bags get stuffed under there—pushed in one at a time and it’s all good—until I open the door to find something and the change in air pressure sucks the fluid sea of bags out onto the kitchen floor.

This time, after everything was jammed under the sink, there I was digging further and further to the back of the chaotic mess for the toilet bowl cleaner and a rag, and instead found a mouse trap set with peanut butter. While it managed to go off without taking my fingers with it, the sudden jolted surprise made a clean sweep of the endless contents onto the floor.

Change of plans my friend. Meet me at the coffee shop.