Why is everything such a chore? I ask myself this at least twice a day usually while I’m doing something exasperating like … a chore.
“How many half-lives does this thin line of dog hair and sand have?” I wonder aloud each time I pull the dustpan away from my successive and futile attempts at a clean sweep.
Occasionally I consider all the labor-intensive solutions I might employ – a lint roller, a microfiber towel, luring the dog over and crossing my fingers that something will appeal to her discerning taste buds mixed within its granular composition.
I shrug my shoulders, figuring that even if I am successful, she’d turn my dust bowl into a mud puddle and then I’d have another task: to fill up a bucket and find the mop.
A shine forms on my upper lip as I lean more heavily on the brush, flinging the finicky........