I'm not one for keeping an immaculate home. I grew up in a house that was clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be lived in ... or something along that vein. I tend to avoid cleaning beyond the regular chores of washing dishes and laundering our clothing. I know our cats turn the countertops into their own stage. Because I have visions of the two cats doing their strippers on crack routines on the counters, I keep anti-bacterial spray on hand at all times.
What I'm confessing to is not getting into the nitty gritty of cleaning on a weekly basis. In fact, if it comes twice a year I consider it OCD. I have a distinct recollection of my mother only cleaning our kitchen floor by means of scrubbing it on hands and knees. That is drilled into my head as the only way to truly get the floor clean. I own a Swiffer Wet-Jet, but that thing doesn't really get the floor clean in my opinion. I use it between times when I break down and get on all fours to scrub the kitchen and bathroom vinyl flooring.
I used my weekend off to clean my home. Well, to clean the kitchen and bathroom. I even bought some of those Mr. Clean Magic sponge things. I love those buggers. I have no idea what kind of magic potion is contained within the pores of the product, but it works. The walls are ever thankful. My elbow grease is put on hold, too.
My house is, indeed, sponge worthy. Heh.
Scrubbing the shower almost turned into a call to 911 -- mildew remover should come with a breathing apparatus is all I'm saying. I opened the window prior to spritzing the bathtub and shower with that caustic spray. I had to bail mid-scrub in order to keep from passing out. My remaining brain cells are still stumbling around like Foster Brooks on the Love Boat.
Once my cleaning extravaganza was complete, I decided our closets and dressers could use clearing. Already set for donation to Goodwill was a huge box of shoes. Knowing the box wouldn't fit in the big red metal box located at the grocer, I transferred them to smaller manageable bags. Mancub had the majority of clothing donations. I tend to buy things that aren't suitable for my body type or age.
With the closets tackled, I turned to my dresser. I've had difficulty closing my undie drawer. Similarly, my sock drawer had become cramped. When donating clothing, is it appropriate to toss in underwear that have been barely worn?
While doing my sorting I came across items that I had no business possessing. Seriously, a sequined g-string? Go on and roll your eyes. Who the frak was I kidding? I know I used to get the Fredrick's of Hollywood catalog when I still lived in Georgia. Also in the silly mix were two thongs that had cartoonish screen prints on what little fabric existed. I know these crazy undergarments were purchased when I still had an active sex life.
Georgia on my mind.
As I put myself through a torturous personal panty raid, I found something else that I obviously had no need to purchase. Hidden beneath the pile of useless panties, thongs and g-strings was a reminder of just how solitary my life has been since coming back to my home planet of Illinois: Assorted condoms and a personal lubricant that warmed on contact. Ugh. I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry or vomit.
I looked at the date on the assorted variety of condoms. Expired. Again, a reminder that my personal shelf life seems to have followed suit.
I sat back on my bed with the strand of condoms in one hand and a handful of ridiculous undies in the other. I laughed to myself and tried to find the humor in it. With no more than a sigh, I tried to find the positive side of being celibate. No worries of my teen son catching me in the act? No pregnancy scares? No fretting over the 'next day follow up call'? No contemplation of it being too soon? No wet spots?
The buried items had been purchased in 2005. Today is May 25, 2009. It's been a long time. This is not a mating call, by the way. I've gone this long without and now I feel I owe it to myself to never settle. There's hope that I have a greater sense of clarity regarding my self-worth. Hmmm
Four years. Two-hundred and eight weeks. One thousand-four hundred and sixty days. But who's counting?