Housework and Homicidal Maniacs

What is it about belting out a few Broadway tunes that makes sweeping and mopping a kitchen floor so much easier?

That was me this morning… iPod blasting the soundtrack from ‘Wicked’, alternately cleaning the floor and dancing with the mop (You’re trying to picture it in your head right now, aren’t you? Go ahead… I’ll wait.)

Finished with the kitchen, and feeling inspired, I moved onto the powder room, and then the entryway, progressing from ‘What is This Feeling?’ to ‘Defying Gravity’ to ‘No Good Deed’… singing at the top of my lungs. (I can’t hear myself with the music blaring through my earbuds, for which I am eternally grateful.)

Dancing around my house. My EMPTY house.

Until I feel a tap on my shoulder.



I jumped. I screamed. And I just about peed all over my nice clean floor.

And then I smacked the intruder.

Who happened to be my husband.

Who had just happened to come home for lunch. “Don’t you remember I said I’d be home for lunch today?”

Um, no. No, I did *not* remember.

Anyway, when I regained my voice, I yelled at him that he should NEVER sneak up on me like that again. For all I knew, he was a homicidal maniac, and I could have used my mop as a deadly weapon.

Of course, he tried to point out that he had done no such sneaking… he had opened the garage, walked into the house (which incidentally triggered the door chime), called my name a few times, and finally had come over to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention. (and then, of course, he added that I should not keep my music so loud anyway)

Well… still… I happen to call that 'sneaking'.

And then I asked the most concerning question of all…

“Um… you didn’t hear me singing, did you?”