After spending the last couple of days looking at my nasty carpet and the inchworm carcases on it, I finally decided today to get around to cleaning. As you know, I generally hate to clean, because it feels like a never-ending chore and because my splash of OCD means that EVERY SINGLE SURFACE MUST BE PERFECT. And I wish that applied only to horizontal surfaces.
So now, I may smell of Clorox Clean-Ups and Windex, but the place looks nice. I finally cleaned the patio windows; I'd not done that since I moved into this place. What came off said windows was alarming, and I'm fairly certain that an entire old, mature, massive tree made the ultimate sacrifice just so I can see outside the window. Even better, Biggs saw his reflection, got scared, and I have further proof that there'll be six more weeks of winter.
But really, folks, it wasn't just the inchworm-laden carpet that inspired me. As the date draws nearer for Momma to move out, I find that I want to re-take over my space. Part of this friendly takeover is a desire to be proud of my space. I wasn't cleaning because I didn't really want her to feel too welcome and settle in for the long haul. Now I know she's getting ready to go, and I think I found somewhere close enough and safe enough for her to live.
This means that my living room and kitchen are tidy. Even the icky old aluminum doors separating my kitchen from Bubbles and Fluffy are clean. The light switch and electric plugs covers are clean. (See above, OCD.) Tomorrow I will tackle the kitchen floor and the bathrooms. Then I will prance about my apartment listening to The Sparks and reveling in my work.
The office? That's a two-week project, but I'll get there.
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