Saturday, March 15, 2008

blockage

Saturdays have become the dustpan of my week, the day on which I attempt to take up the slack of neglected cleaning and schoolwork. I used to be very good at this, and had no trouble living up to my email address: lovetocleanup. For years I have sprung awake, turned on the painful-yet-motivating 80's pop, and shown this house who's boss. Later, when every surface was glistening and the smell of lemon-scented Lysol permeated the entire house, I would sit with Quinn and Reilly and tie up the loose ends of our school week. It was a wonderful routine, and I was the shining, lemon-scented star.

For reasons I do not know, I am currently suffering from the cleaner's version of writer's block. (As well as actual writer's block, as you are no doubt noticing.) I don't know where to start, or how to care. Our house has become Seussian in its disorder. We have lamps on amps (literally), 43-year-old boys with toys, Playmobil stables on tables, bags of rags, and the curtains are hurtin' for a cleaning. But I just can't. Everything is so precariously perched, it's impossible to wipe down a surface without sending 700 guitar magazines into the air. As most of you know, we are aiming to ditch this MFSH (mother-f-ing s*** hole) and get us some bigger, brighter digs this year. As such, I have completely disengaged from this house, except to hate it. Anyone can tell you that I am grossly exaggerating in every description, but that doesn't change the rage I feel when I see that Todd has stacked four amplifiers almost to the ceiling, or a week's worth of mail just as high, or that the kids have built an array of creations whose very survival dictates that they remain in our living room. I am also excessively fond of bags of shredded papers taking root by the laundry room door, every surface having become a veritable junk yard, and of course, the worthless leopard geckos who reside on my decorative table, looking smugly at me, knowing that the purpose of the table was to be bare. I could go on and on. Instead, I will try to re-channel my anger into productivity.

I'll start changing my email address to: whyshouldicleanthisfuckingplace.

Have a great weekend!

2 comments:

Sam said...

Did you move to my house? Because your description is more fitting here than at your house! Except the amps, we don't have those, but we do have some drums that could rival the sound output.

BREATHE!

Adam said...

I do not want to use the broom.
I will not turn on the vacuum.
I could not, would not polish the sink.
I would not, could not find that stink.
Not with a scrub! Not in a tub!
Not with a cloth! Back the hell off!
I will not use the liquid soap.
I would rather sit and mope.
I will not clean this awful space.
I do not like this fucking place!

...Love you!
-Adam