I Hate Cleaning

It's true, folks, I really do hate to clean. I almost bankrupted myself when I lived in Cleveland for a housekeeper, and she was amazing! She could run a vacuum and talk on her cell. She taught the lazy secret of tossing toilet cleaner into the toilet, waiting, flushing, and calling it done. She had NINE, count 'em, 9 children.

Since then, all the work has had to be done myself. The irony is that I can clean the heck out of someone else's place, but getting me to take care of my own place requires cocktails, good conversations, and a Webster.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that my place is nasty or filthy, but more likely dusty and full of piles of shredding. Still. I've been talking myself into an uber-clean since about March, and am now required to get it in perfect shape.

1. The boy will be in town on the 21st.
2. I really love a tidy, gorgeous place.
3. Who knows how much longer I'll live here, and it needs to be lovely if I break the lease.

I did intend to get started on Monday, but now it's Friday and nothing has been done. (Except the dusting of the little table near my deck.) I talked to Momma the other night and she asked if she should still come over Monday to help me sort. (Please see the first sentence.) I asked her to come over on Wednesday, so tomorrow I really will, I promise, I swear, work on the master bathroom and bedroom tomorrow.

Success breeds success, right?