Dear Lord,
Now, I understand that you work in your own time and that your time is not exactly my time and that you have lots of other, more pressing needs on your list for today. I’m not saying that you should ignore wars and famine or death and disappointment just for me, but if you can slip me in somewhere, well, I’d be much obliged.
Because, even though there are plenty of things to do here at home, like control the spread of the jungle that is my back yard or prevent the proliferation of cats, I’d really like to do something that pays. If I had a job, I could delegate the task of picking up the dead cricket/grasshopper hybrid thing that sits on the bathroom floor to one of my children. Also, it would be nice if I could have my boys clean their room rather than having to do it myself. Donning the hazmat suit and disappearing into a dimension not only sight and sound, but of smell just isn’t doing it for me anymore. Sure, Lord, you see lots of nasty things up there, but down here I have to touch them. That isn’t very pleasant when you a) don’t know what an object is or…was, b) find things that seem familiar but are either wet or crunchy and shouldn’t be and c) discover new life forms that the Amazon could only dream of. Most of the kitchen seems to be missing and, although it would be nice to find out exactly where the pastry brush, a meat thermometer and a dozen forks might have disappeared to, I'd rather someone else do it. I'm afraid I might find the remains of Jimmy Hoffa or Amelia Earhart or some poor directionally-challenged FEMA official in there. And really, should it be up to me to dispose of 1) a self-conducted science project that ended months ago 2) a long-forgotten beaded leather thingy one of them made in cub scouts and 3) Luke Skywalker’s head from the Star Wars Lego set that no longer exists? I mean, I have to do it for free and I don't even get that much appreciation for it.
And, Lord, that’s not all. Even though my kitchen is half missing, I’m still having problems dealing with the mess. Right now, as I look at my kitchen floor, I’m pretty sure that if a person ate off it, they would either die or develop an immunity to every possible infectious organism that exists. My refrigerator rivals the boys’ room and possibly the Centers for Disease Control when it comes to unidentifiable and possibly toxic organisms. Once again, if I were working, I could delegate it to someone else in my household. After all, it would sure be nice for someone else to put the liquefied celery or the greenish mystery meat down the garbage disposal once in a while.
Draw me like one of your French girls, wearing only this...half a Hitler mustache. |
Really, Jesus? You gotta be kidding! |
Just my luck! Slayer must have lots of requests. |