I looked under the bed this morning to see what was lurking. The recovered tally includes: one lone sock, a book, a couple of dead crusty Kleenex, several clots of dog hair, a hair scrunchie and few magazines. (no they weren’t porn unless you count cooking magazines as food porn)
It is not that I don’t want to have a clean house. I come from a clean family. I can assure I am not wallowing in my own filth; it is less mess and more clutter. I like the smell of cleaning products- Febreze is like crack as far as I am concerned. However, unlike women in commercials I am incapable of becoming orgasmically happy over having a really clean bathroom. I have come to accept the concept of “clean enough.”
Things I would rather spend my time on versus cleaning:
• napping in a patch of sun,
• snuggling with Bob,
• walking the dogs,
• making homemade soup,
• searching aimlessly through catalogs thinking about the amazing amount of crap you can buy and wondering does anyone really need a home hot dog steamers (bun warmer attachment optional),
• spending time with friends,
• staring aimlessly into space (I like to call this brainstorming- it makes it sound more productive),
• making up a pot of hot tea and curling up with a fleece blanket,
• watching hockey
• having imaginary interviews with various talk show hosts about my book, In the Stars, where I sound witty and never do that snorting laugh I can do when I’m nervous.
The only times I tend to notice the leaning towers of books, scribbled notes, and stacks of clean laundry that never seems to get put away is when guests come into town. Then I remember it is that very clutter that makes this house, our home.
What would you rather do than clean?
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