Dave came home at around midnight yesterday. He briefly flirted with taking Delta up on a $400 offer to spend the night in Cinncinnati, but good sense prevailed.

Contrary to some reports, I did not spend the weekend partying. I cleaned, de-cluttered and prepared for a visit from my parents later this week. Not that they would ever find fault with my housekeeping (which leaves so very much to be desired), but because I just couldn’t stand it any more.

I don’t know how people who actually have to leave their homes to work every day manage. If it weren’t that I can throw a load of laundry in between answering phone calls and other office-related activities, I don’t know what I would do. Even with the intensive bout of housework this weekend, parts of the house are still a disaster.

All my life I’ve been thinking that eventually I will get a grip on the housework situation and suddenly we’ll be living in a picture-perfect (circa 1950s) household. I don’t know why that would be the ideal, but I guess it’s like that imprinting thing that happens with baby ducks. I must have absorbed it during those summers spent watching “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver” re-runs (while my mom vacuumed around me, I’m sure).

Why do I think it’s just a matter of my organizing myself well enough? Clearly the homes in those sitcoms benefited from the full-time ministrations of a stay-at-home mom. Maybe it is time to throw in the Swiffer duster and hire a cleaning service.

Just kidding. The headline is for Dave who is, sadly, in Dallas for a couple of days, poor guy.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’m goofing off. I’ve closed the company so I can properly devote my time to reading fashion magazines and eating jelly beans all day. (In reality, I went to choir practice last night, and will be singing at a funeral service tomorrow, as well as at the usual church service on Sunday.)

Tonight I’m going to practice violin and watch a movie. I thought about going out to the movies, but I like being home alone — at least until dark. Then I start to wonder if it’s just a fluke that I’ve never seen a ghost. Worse than a ghost, the little brown bat that got into the house last weekend could put in another appearance.

As a rule, I like bats. I just don’t want to share my home with them. I’m sure they feel the same way about me. It’s obvious when a bat gets in that all it wants to do is get back out to the abundant mosquitos and other winged snackfood.