This is the most boring thing I've ever written, so far.
Anyway, after my headache finally subsided, I looked around and found myself alone in a war zone, a.k.a. "My House." We at Chez Hayes have been really occupied lately with life distractions, novels and careers. Also, I HATE CLEANING SO MUCH. So if I find a spare moment and my choices are A) Scrub the tomato splatter out of the microwave, or B) Watch Millionaire Matchmaker with some Pinot Grigio, go ahead and take a wild guess.
Today, though, I couldn't take it anymore. My mom used to do this when I was growing up, and I never understood it then. All of a sudden, something would switch and she HAD TO CLEAN, and I would just get out of the way or do what she said. I do the exact same thing now.
1. Did laundry
2. Cleaned up various odds, ends, Diet Coke cans, receipts
5. Freaked out the dog
6. Affixed new decorative throw pillows on couch
7. Hung print that fell down three months ago
8. Printed photos of family and friends for wall frames that had not been updated since 2002
9. Scrubbed bathroom sink and counter and TOILET
10. Emptied out TWO DRAWERS OF TERROR
11. Organized my jewelry
12. Selected some for donation (angelic)
13. Did dishes
14. Scrubbed kitchen counters
15. Hauled out trash
16. CLEANED THE GAWDAMN MICROWAVE
Here's the thing. My microwave is high above the stove, obviously installed by some Huge Man Beast with Big Man Beast Arms (proper noun). I reach it by extending my hobbit limbs and slamming it until it makes a sound like an SG 550 rifle. I do not suggest this microwave placement in your own home. It's sort of out of sight, out of mind, and thus turns into a scene from Pearl Harbor and requires intensive chair-standing and balance to remedy. Last night, thoughts of the microwave haunted me as I fell asleep, which I think contributed to my madness today.
As stated earlier, I HATE CLEANING. I mean, I guess no one likes it, except maybe those people who wake up early and go for runs. The older I get, and the more I continue to hate cleaning, the more I consider a maid. It sounds snobby, but seriously. I work hard for my meager wages, and if I want to pay some nice lady to come over twice a month and clean the godforsaken mothereffing microwave instead of, say, spend that money on sushi, who cares? Right? Am I right? We're all adults here. I'd like someone to come scrub the cancer from the toilet and then leave. I'm serious. I guess you're probably saying, "Donate the money to orphans, Steph." Well... well...
Here are some pictures of my clean house, because, well, it's all I have.
Here's the jewelry. Ain't it cute? This will all move into my office/closet one day, one far, far, far off day. Baby steps. One thing at a time.
In the corner, that's Stuart's dog bed. It's outfitted with a Christmas blanket and a leopard pillow. He told me he didn't want to be "matchy matchy." Also, I hate that tall lamp. I didn't realize how much I hate it until I saw this picture. Related: Anyone want a lamp?
Look how domestic! I put a picture of my boyfriend and myself in this frame, which had been sitting face down on the shelf since I got it in, oh, February.
And here we have the picture that fell down, restored to it's mass-produced Target greatness.
Where the blog magic happens.
So, I'm taking votes. Cleaning lady, or orphans? Don't hold back.