The Reason I Don’t Do Housework

 

Butterfly Decoration New (Photo credit: Yureiko)

A repost today, because I’m in and out and in and out again.  This one is from two years ago, as usual, because I had no readers back then.  Don’t know what I’ll do when I reach the posts that had readers – steal from their blogs, probably.

The reason I don’t do housework…is moths. I don’t do mops because of moths; I don’t do cloths because of moths. Moths are just nighttime butterflies. I saw a daytime butterfly (aka, ‘a butterfly’) last week; it was minute, about the size of my little fingernail. If you saw my delicate hands you’d be impressed with just how small this butterfly was. It was tiny. I said to the Hub that it must be a baby butterfly and he agreed with me. In his defence, he wasn’t really listening. It took my teenage son to remind me that there are no baby butterflies; well, there are, but they’re called ‘caterpillars’.

I’m not afraid of moths. Apart from the monster ones dressed in metal that we met while driving through the night from Jo’burg to Durban. It was Margate really, but if I wrote Margate you’d wonder how we got from South Africa to England overnight by car and it would be one of those enduring mysteries, like how did Frankenstein’s Monster travel weeks by ship without being detected despite being eight feet tall and made of spare body parts? Then I’d have to explain that there is a Margate in South Africa, probably named after the British Margate, and that would take too long.

Moths are despised because they fold their wings; they tuck them neatly away. Butterflies basically prop their wings up like unused skis; and have you seen the way they discard their winter coats? Our house in South Africa had stipple on the outside walls and the caterpillars would crawl up to rub themselves out of their skin. V. untidy.

So, butterflies are sloppy little bugs and everyone loves them. Moths keep themselves nicely presented and get squashed to oblivion by nervous slobs wielding bulky newspapers. Not wanting to be slapped around the face by The Sunday Telegraph unless I’ve had a cracking good row with the Hub and I have a telephone directory in my hands for retaliation, I decided dirt was the safer option.

*

I’d like to thank the moth who visited me in my bathroom last night for this post. I couldn’t have done it without you and I’m sorry I accidentally flattened you when I shooed you out of the window.

At least butterflies keep sociable hours.

I’d also like to clear the Hub’s name: he is far too scared of me to raise a paper to me.

Joke 423

This is possibly a true story, but I’m using it because it reads like a joke.  I got it from Magsx2’s Blog, via Barb at Passionate About Pets.

Bucket-headed dog (Photo credit: Paul Kidd)

An older, tired looking dog wandered into my yard. I could tell from his collar and well fed belly that he had a home and was well taken care of. He calmly came over to me, I gave him a few pats on his head; he then followed me into my house, slowly walked down the hall, and curled up in the corner and fell asleep.

 An hour later, he went to the door, and I let him out.

The next day he was back, greeted me in my yard, walked inside and resumed his spot in the hall and again slept for about an hour. This continued off and on for several weeks.

Curious, I pinned a note to his collar: “I would like to find out who the owner of this wonderful sweet dog is and ask if you are aware that almost every afternoon your dog comes to my house for a nap.”

The next day he arrived for his nap, with a different note pinned to his collar: “He lives in a home with six children, two under the age of three. He’s trying to catch up on his sleep. Can I come with him tomorrow?”