I don’t know what I was smoking when I agreed to have the missionaries over for dinner tonight, being how it’s Tuesday and Housekeeper Eve, and the house is a Pit of Chaos.  I tidied up a bit yesterday, but everything that was tidied has been effectively untidied, and golly whiz there is just so much crap on display and no place to shove it discreetly away…except for the closets my husband and I cleaned out on Saturday.

I am dithering between making a meatloaf and ordering pizza.  You might wonder how I could possibly be dithering between those two things.  Frankly, so am I.   Actually, I’m beginning to think I’m only pretending to dither.  Well, now I know I’m only pretending.  Yep, it’s an established fact now.  The science is settled.  There is no debate!

Now I’m just preoccupied with the question of why they’ve reinstituted the policy of only feeding the missionaries between 4 and 5 o’clock.  I have never understood why mission presidents do this.  I know the official answer, which is that they want to reserve the 5-7 o’clock period for gospel teaching because that’s when people tend to be at home.  Yeah, they do tend to be home–eating dinner.  I’m pretty sure I don’t get the logic behind this one, unless the secret agenda is to be annoying.

At least it isn’t as annoying in my case as it could be, because the missionaries currently in our ward are the lady kind, so they’re allowed to be in my house without my husband present.  When we had boy missionaries and this rule was in place, it meant that you had to bring dinner to their apartment and leave it on the doorstep or whatever.  That was ultra-annoying.  I’m reckoning those boys ate a lot of pizza during those months.  But whatever.  It never affected me personally because I never volunteer to feed missionaries.

I didn’t volunteer to do it this time, except the lady who’s in charge of coordinating the missionaries’ dinner calendar called me on the phone and asked me to do it, so I said, “Oh…fine.  That’s fine.  Sure.”  Then she told me I had to do it between 4 and 5 p.m., and I said, “Holy crap.”  Or was it “What the crap?”  Either way, I thought afterward that maybe that wasn’t the most appropriate response.  Doesn’t exactly scream CLASS ACT, at any rate.

So yeah, I really don’t want to make that meatloaf.  More to the point, I don’t want to clean up after the meatloaf.  Because I have enough cleaning to do that I haven’t gotten to yet without making more work for myself on purpose.  I try to only make more work for myself accidentally.

I wish I were in the anger stage of depression.  Then I could just throw everything in a bunch of boxes (see:  last month), or set fire to the whole joint.  But no, I’m not in the anger stage.  I’m in the guilt/sadness/lethargy stage.  There’s no reason.  It’s just how it is.  I wonder what stage I’ll be in at 4 o’clock.

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