The rant below was like a good workout.
My daughter worked 16 hours yesterday, add the commute time and she got home after I left for work, slept for less than 5 hours and is back at work until midnight. She's 23, she can do this - for a while. I pulled a few trial prep almost all-nighters, staggering to my car at 3 a.m., but that was then and now I'm old. I shall not bitch about working an hour or two of overtime every day, because, damn.
In a perfect world, I'd get more done when I got home from work. I get home, flip through the mail (and leave it piling up on the counter) let the dogs out, feed the cats, let the dogs in when the cats are done, feed the dogs. Dinner, maybe trash, maybe laundry, but somehow the clutter keeps ahead of me. I have goals of doing housework in the evenings, but by the time I get home with my few surviving brain cells I really don't give a crap about the cat hair tumbleweeds. I'll get to them. One of these days.
That is a long intro into why I can't bitch at my daughter for the condition of her end of the house, because it is really not good but when is she here to deal with it? And I don't have the energy. And Merry Maids would get quite surly about it, plus she sleeps days and they work days and that would be inconvenient.
Oh, and she owes me the price of a pair of Lands End clogs that I wear in the yard and such, because I was 20 whole minutes late coming home and her dog went to the back of the house and found BOTH clogs and chewed the innersole out of one of them. The second one was in progress when I came home. Now, I can be tolerant of his nerves, and if he's here and it's way past dinner and it's dark and grandma isn't home to take care of him and there is a pair of shoes near the front door and they talk trash to him and he has to take out his anxiety on one, even though there's fifty bucks of dog chewies in plain view, I can sort of understand that. Sort of. But I was 20 minutes late, it wasn't dark yet, and the bar for anxious shoe chewing appears to get lower every day, and he went looking for these. And he's almost 2! He's not a baby puppy we forgive because he'll grow out of it. He would have died rather than chew one of our shoes a year ago. Now, damn, those shoes are tasty!
When good dogs go bad...at least he's doing it with cheap old shoes, but still.