The cat's on the counter and I lost the spoon ...

little man's poopin' and the dog's gotta too ...

So, at Casa Graham, we like to make up songs for any occasion. We sing about chickens, and our pets, and how we wish we had some chickens for pets. And speaking of that ... there are these two ladies who do all sorts of crafties and cookin' and such, including raising chickens (!) in town (!!) But I must say, my most-favoritest-and-my-best love of this blog is the dilligent record of fails. So great -- I love it! No one is perfect, although she comes close.

But back to the songs ... and the title of this post. The house is a complete disaster area. I mean, you cannot walk without impaling your foot on a bionicle or miniature knight or dragon. And that's just the kids' mess. I count seven, SEVEN, miscellaneous balls of semi-tangly yarn, within two feet of my bod on the couch. My mother would be horrified. But let me tell you something about a clean house ... it's for suckers. And THIS is a bunch of crap, I just can't get past the mental image of a teeth-clenched June Cleaver scrubbing floors in a twinset and heels. People, I got a life to live, and I ain't gonna spend it cleaning house! (And I think Dolly would agree.)