Yesterday I worked my fanny off in the upstairs bedrooms. I can say in all honesty that it has been months - plural months - (technically anywhere from two - infinity) since I have done anything in their rooms beyond screaming at the top of my lungs that they are unacceptably disgusting. But because I'm only as mean as my short-term memory allows me to be, I forget to ground them until it is clean, and I forget to check under the bed and in the back of the closet for the source of the mysteriously tidy surfaces, etc. So I donned my hazmat suit, grabbed some storage containers and a 55-gallon drum for trash, and headed up early yesterday morning.
Someone like me shouldn't live in a two-story house. I subscribe to the "out-of-sight, out-of-mind" philosophy of housework, so bedtime is often the only time I'm faced with the horror of my neglect. As long as no one (except my family, who doesn't count) knows that there are actually small microbes singing and dancing in my tub, and they aren't scrubbing bubbles, I can maintain the polite fiction that only my downstairs is in need of attention. And I "topclean" the downstairs on a fairly regular basis, only resorting to heavy housework (windows, baseboards) if I'm expecting my mother or Colin Firth for a visit. I love a clean house, I just don't like being the one who cleans it.
Anyway, I made tremendous progress ridding the girls of some of their crap, junque, garbage and trash. They went to bed with compliments for my efforts and promises to try to keep it looking better. Then today arrives, and I have to go finish what I started...oops...now we run into another thing I'm not good at: project completion. A brisk morning walk, another cup of coffee, and unexpected long phone call, a loose dog who had to be returned to a neighbor, suddenly it's noon and my motivation has disappeared. I know it is upstairs, my motivation, that is. If I just walk up there and see the piles, boxes, bins, shelves, all waiting for me to complete the "good intention" part of the equation, my motivation will kick in. If I see something that needs doing, invariably I do it. Which is obviously why I am sitting downstairs blogging, where I can safely pretend that the semi-clean upstairs is just a dream.
Well, since I know a couple of people are nodding their heads, wagering I'll take a nap or check my ebay watch list before I ever go upstairs, I think I'll just shag my fat fanny up there right now. It's a chance to accomplish two worthy goals: clean rooms that I can hold over my daughters' heads in martyr fashion; and complete a project that I can scratch off my list. Plus, if I finish that, I can mow the lawn as an anniversary gift for my husband. Obviously, I don't need to be appreciated, I just want everyone to know how hard I work. At least half the time.