I looked around in despair yesterday at a living room completely dripping with clutter sauce and a kitchen that had either crumbs or something greasy or both on every surface, including the stove. Gaaaah! The kids and I started cleaning up a bit, so it's better, but it's not good. I still flinch when I look around, but I can actually do something in those spaces other than run away screaming or start cleaning with a crazed look in my eyes.
I will have to clean some more, not just for my own peace of mind but so that I can concentrate on work. I used to have a higher tolerance for clutter. That tolerance is wearing thinner and thinner the older I get. The good part is that overall, our house is nicer. The bad part is that if I fall behind on cleaning, my writing pace really starts to fall off until I get my housekeeping act together. Fortunately I don't put off housework so long that it's a clean-by-diverting-a-river kind of situation anymore (most of the time, ahem) but like now, I do sometimes ignore it for long enough that the clean up will take a not-insignificant amount of time to rectify. Ugh.
It's that time of year to wash windows, too. The recent profusion of sunny days has revealed the quality and quantity of dirt on all my exterior glass surfaces. If I don't do something about it soon, all the windows in my books and stories will be grimy, dusty, cobwebbed things.
I just want to dance in a circle chanting ick ick ick ick ick! I wonder if it's possible to train cats to clean.
That should be enough whining for now. I think I'll go write about someone with a really bad housekeeping problem.
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