I guess I wanna be a Toys R Us kid or something

My house is starting to look like an episode of Hoarders. Particularly the kitchen. Where nary a dish has been washed in what must be going on six days now. This may not come as a surprise to my mother. Or my college roommate Ale, who was so obsessed with cleanliness, she used to scrub the toilet before we went to the bars in case one of us needed to rest our head in it later that night. (I have to say Ale, I really appreciated that. Many times.)

But it’s a surprise to me! I’m thirty. And apparently unable to keep house. To figure out how to operate the vacuum we received two years ago for our wedding (thank you Mike and Elizabeth!). To fix the doorbell that’s been out of order for eight months. To put things back where I found them.

If this wasn’t evidence enough that I’m somewhat incapable of caring for myself (much less another human being), my mom is still on speed dial for such questions as:

1. Can I microwave a frozen turkey?

2. When are you going to file my tax return, and what’s the likelihood I’ll be getting a call from the IRS this year for creative accounting?

3. Does it mean my cold is getting better, or worse, when my snot turns a different color? (Oh please, like you’re not still asking your mom that too.)

Moms know these things! I do not. Maybe in a Google world, this shouldn’t matter, but it’s somehow unsettling that I don’t have answers to these questions. That there are still some things for which I want my mommy. Does this mean I’m still a kid?

Someone once told me once that we feel like a child until we have one ourselves. CRIPES! If I don’t have one, am I going to be jumping on a giant FAO Schwartz keyboard when I’m thirty-six? I suppose it doesn’t help that I work for a toy company and people think I’m styling Barbie hair from the hours of eight to five. (I’m not. Usually.)

Maybe it won’t be so bad, especially if it means I get that sweet indoor trampoline. And in the meantime, I’ll use some of that money that’s not going towards daycare and diapers yet (or ever?) and get the on-again-off-again maid out here. Unless, Ale, you’d like to hop a quick flight to LA?

Now seriously, am I the only idiot still calling their mom for dumb questions like this?