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Sunday,
February 20, 2005
Ooooooergh
Since Lyndon was out of town, I thought I'd take the opportunity and clean the apartment. Of course, I can do this just as easily when he's home, especially since I'm blessed with a husband who not only sends me flowers on Valentine's Day, but is also willing to help me clean whenever I ask (and often loads the dishwasher and does laundry on his own stick).
But -- and this is the weird part -- I feel bad asking him to help, because if I was doing something else and someone asked me to stop what I was doing and help them clean, I'd be sorta pissed off about it. I can only assume this is a hangover from childhood when Mom would see me reading and rope me into housework -- since I hated being interrupted, I don't want to do it to anyone else, even if they ARE willing to help. And so, it's easier for me to clean when he's not here, so that I don't feel like I'm interrupting him.
Look, I never said I was normal.
However, since I do have the apartment to myself, I did go on kind of a cleaning binge. All the laundry is done, including the two big duvets that have to be washed in the big industrial washers at the laundromat, the laundry room is vacuumed and mopped, the kitty litter changed for fresh stuff, the bedroom and main bathroom cleaned and vacuumed (and I even brought up the big air filter/ionizer he had in Atlanta and set it up in the corner), the staircase and entry hall vacuumed and mopped, the main foyer dusted and vacuumed, and all kinds of little stuff put away where it belongs.
I still have the living room, kitchen, small bathroom and my office to do, but with any luck I can get the bulk of that done tomorrow. The point about doing all of this cleaning? When the apartment is clean, it's easier for me to write because I don't feel distracted by the need to clean the place. I may be weird, but I also know how to get myself working.
In the meantime, I've just downed a nice diet Coke with Lime and Malibu rum (hey, I need it as a muscle relaxant), and I think I'm gonna hit the hay. Night, all.
Oh, hell
I figured I'd check Xanga really fast before I went to bed, give my brain a chance to shift into a lower gear, and found out that Hunter S. Thompson killed himself.
Shit. Shit shit shit.