February 23, 2007
A whirling dervish
Originally published November 14, 2004
I don't know what's gotten into me the past week or so. I've been reading a lot, taking walks in the woods, going shooting every couple of days and....CLEANING HOUSE!!! Yes, you read that correctly. I actually have been trying to bring some semblance of order and hygene to the Crackerbox again.
Now, I'm not KILLING myself with the cleaning, because I can take only so much of that shit at one time, but so far I have managed to shampoo the carpets, scrape and scrub all the grime off my kitchen stove, polish the kitchen cabinets, mop and wax the kitchen floor, shine all the countertops and even clean the refrigerator, inside and out. All the clothes piled in the laundry room are either on hangers in a closet or folded in a drawer now.
The house is starting to look pretty good.
Yesterday, Recondo 32 and Georgia came over to watch the Bulldog's game with me. Georgia walked in, looked around and said, "Holy shit, Smith! What happened here? I think I'm in the wrong house!" She was very impressed with my efforts, but she couldn't help observing that if I didn't let it get so filthy in the first place, the cleanup wouldn't be so much work. Yadda, yadda.
I'm just taking one room at a time for a few hours off and on every day. I'll be tackling my bedroom tomorrow, then on to the computer room. (THAT mess may take a week to unfuck.) When I am finished, I will have a clean and orderly house, which means that I probably won't be comfortable here anymore.
I don't know if I'm doing this cleaning because sobriety is so got-dam BORING or if I'm getting in touch with my gay side. But I find myself sitting on the couch and staring at my nicotine-and-dust-stained ceiling fan. I'm going to remove the blades and the light globes tonight, clean the blades and run the globes through the dishwasher. Then, I'll put it all back together again, CLEAN.
If my mama saw me doing this shit, she would worry about me.
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