These shoes belong to a dear friend. She is one of the major contributors to my sanity. She owns a cleaning business, and comes to my house once a week. A home with so many children running in and out of it does not stay clean. Especially the bathroom that the little cherubs frequent. Often it is all I can do to pick up the toys and keep the dishes and laundry clean. (Laundry clean, not folded--I'm working on that.) Often I walk past the bathroom and just shut the door. I don't want to see (or smell!) in there. It causes panic attacks. Just when I think the mess is going to swallow me whole, my savior waltzes in with her yellow gloves. Two hours later the house smells fresh, my toilets gleam, and I no longer stick to the kitchen floor.
Bless you, bless you, dear, dear friend.
[PS. Anticipating questioning readers, yes, she truly is my friend. I have known her many more years than she has known the shameful state of my lavatories. Also, "savior" is not too strong a word. 'Savior' is one who delivers or rescues from peril. Her weekly visits definitely deliver me from emotional--and possibly physical--peril.]
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