At least she’s not naked.
Another miracle has occurred here in Illinois, and my daughter cleaned her bedroom. Angels wept for joy. So did I. She left this note on the message board on her door:
Once she was finished cleaning, I seized the one moment that her bedroom floor was cleared to shampoo her carpets. You can see how awful it is, can’t you? And can you see the cat we bought specifically to go with this room?
She came home later and stormed up to me. “Why is my floor all wet?”
“I shampooed your carpet while you were gone.”
“That’s not fair! Why do I have to sleep in a wet room?”
“If you would stop spilling things on your floor, I wouldn’t have to shampoo the carpet,” I said, thinking this was a reasonable point, while completely forgetting the laws of logic my daughter applies to a conversation.
“I can’t help it that I spill things! What, am I being punished because I’m clumsy now?”
“Punished? I shampooed your carpet. That’s not a punishment. That’s regular household maintenance.”
She sighed and locked herself in her wet room. The room did look nice for a few hours.
When I was a teenager I would get in a snit when my mom asked me to help her carry in groceries. All I had to do was go to the garage and carry the bags from the car to the kitchen. That’s it.
It was only when I had to make my own list, drive myself to the store, shop, pay with money I had to earn myself, drive home, unload and put away all the groceries myself that I realized what an ungrateful turd I was.