Yesterday I went on a cleaning tear, largely because I had one of those days last week when I looked around the house and realized that I couldn’t remember when we’d last cleaned, and also that there were tumbleweeds of carpet fuzz rolling past on the wood floor.
So I did the obvious things, like send Monkey off to dust (and then go around behind him, later, and get the spots he missed), and put Chickadee to work on the bookshelves, and donned a haz-mat suit and tackled the bathrooms. (Otto was out in the garage cleaning up our old kitchen table to ready it for sale, and HOOBOY did he get the raw end of that deal, because apparently one of the children spilled a cup of milk down into the self-storing table leaf SEVERAL YEARS AGO. Urgh.)
After much of the basic, surface stuff was done, we found ourselves really getting into the deeper stuff.
Like, Otto found a basket just the right size for all the Wii stuff. So it no longer looks like Nintendo barfed all over our entertainment center. Hooray!
And I dove underneath the couch in the office and found three pairs of shoes that do NOT belong to anyone who is supposed to be using the office. Plus several notebooks and books which, similarly, have nothing to do with the people to whom the office belongs. Hmph.
We took a break at some point to look at various pieces of storage furniture, online, because nothing says “loving marriage” like hours spent looking at media cabinets while one person salivates over units costing hundreds of dollars and the other one keeps asking, “Wait, how many CDs do you have? No, REALLY?”
At some point I decided I really needed to clean out my closet. It’s hilarious to me that this is even an issue, less than two years after moving, because when I left my last house I’m pretty sure I threw out 80% of what I owned, including donating a huge amount of clothing. But things wear out and tastes change and, um, butts grow.
Also, I did a ruthless thinning out of my sweater collection before leaving the north, but not-quite-two-years later it’s time to admit that I will never wear a turtleneck sweater again. Ever. Don’t get me wrong—it gets cold here. Really cold, even, sometimes. But I’ve discovered that (for whatever reason), wrapping my neck up is practically an engraved invitation to the Hot Flash Gods. I cannot wear a turtleneck. I cannot even wear a SCARF. I just can’t. So maybe I should give that stack of sweaters to someone who can, huh?
The Twilight Zone-esque scene came when Chickadee joined me in my closet and started interrupting me, every third item-removal, to say, “Can I have that?”
Some items were stained or damaged, so they were to be thrown away. Of course she can’t have those.
And the rest of them, well, they’re FAR TOO BIG for her.
Um. Except. They’re not. The shirts I’m getting rid of because I’ve had them since college (shut up) and I no longer want to wear them because they’re too tight and or too short? Fit her. Fit her just fine. And those shoes that rub my feet a little? Fit her, too.
Um. I am old.
But at least my house is clean(er).