Confessions of a Rotten Housekeeper

Getting ready to go to Phoenix for ThrillerFest tomorrow, which means scrubbing down the house. Why? So that the friend who so graciously agreed to house & dog sit for us doesn't see what a horribly non-domestically inclined person I am. This further implies forays into the scarier, darker corners of my home.

Hmm...just where did that orange stain in the microwave come from? WTF is that sticky green thing stuck to the refrigerator shelf? Wow, I'd completely forgotten about my secret stash of poptarts - too bad they're three years old. So THAT'S where all of Zuzu's dog hair hides. Ewww, that's a gi-normous dead spider behind the toilet - at least I didn't get bit on the ass while...well, you get the picture (and probably wish you hadn't).

I could make up some lovely B.S. about how I'm busy writing, absent-minded professor, mad genius can't be bothered with the more mundane aspects of life. Unfortunately, it would be just that, B.S. The simple truth of the matter is that I can't stand domestic tasks. Laundry? Well, I've already gone into depth on why I hate doing laundry. Windows? Why bother, the bugs and dirt will be back within the hour. Make my bed? But I'll be getting back in it in another 16 hours or so! Vaccuuming? Too loud, it hurts my ears. Take out the garbage? But then I might have to talk to my cranky neighbor & I don't want him to see me in my p.j.'s. Dust the furniture? But it'll be back in just a few minutes.

Now don't go thinking my house is a complete nasty hovel. I get around to doing most of this stuff, just not, you know, right away. Truthfully, the two rooms that have to be maintained at a reasonable level of cleanliness are the bathroom and the kitchen. I'm hoping the reasons for this are obvious. So if you should make the mistake of coming over to my home unannounced (a major no-no in my personal book of good manners), you can at least count on a clean toilet and food or drink that is safe to consume. 'Cause, you know, a girl's gotta have standards. Whenever I get too down on the state of non-cleanliness of my home, my husband always says something like, "we're not a patch on ...." or "remember when we went to so-and-so's house and you were too grossed out to accept a glass of water?" I feel a little better. Not much, but a little.

The upside to all of this sick-o cleaning is that not only will I have a reasonably clean home for a short while, but it keeps me from obsessing over ThrillerFest. I'm stupid shy and can work up a ragin' anxiety over large crowds of people I don't know doin' the thing I want to be doing (writing & making - sort of at least - a living at it). Just writing about it is making me antsy. Guess it's time to go sweep and mop the kitchen floor before I freak myself out. Again.