I'm Not That Classy. . . and also a post where I make use of a whole lot of hyphenated phrases

This very morning I opened my linen closet and chanted a prayer of thanksgiving.

For there, hapazardly stacked inside, were 21 bath towels - brand spanking clean and available for use.

Thank you, God.



And because the let-me-just-state-for-the-record-that-I'm-not-a-rich-bitch-and-what-do-you-expect-for-this-is-Jersey-where-it-seems-that-everyone-and-their-mother-employs-the-help-of-a-domestic-sanitary-engineer-of-which-I-just-happen-to-employ-a-feng-shui-leaning-version-every-other-feng-shuing-week cleaning lady happened to pay a visit to my house today, I had the good sense to revel in my great fortune when I returned home late from work to a clean, peaceful, and hair-and-fur-free environment.

But the tranquility will not last, my friends.

For tomorrow I enter Trigger World for the first time.

Yes, dear readers, I will be traveling to a distant state to see what I imagine to be her chaos-induced-cyclone-of-a-dorm room for the first time.

Oh, and her bathroom.  I will be taking the virgin voyage into what I further imagine to be her hair-and-tap-tap-make-up-induced-swill-of-a-bathing-parlor for the first time too.

And I just may find out exactly how she has survived for the past two-and-and-half-months with just two bath towels when she used to insist on two freshly-laundered towels a day. .  .

Funny. . .

I once read a story about Jacqueline Kennedy Onnasis visiting her famous son while he was a student at Brown and wading through the mounds of clothing strewn about the floor in order to make his bed.

I may have an every-other-week-cleaning-lady and possession of a wicker-table-that-once-belonged-to-her, but since we're on the record here, let me state, my friends:   I'm just not the Jackie O' kind of classy.

And, yes, even my mother - much to her great dismay - employs a cleaning service every other week.

It's the law.

This is Jersey.