I was proud of myself this past week for all the sweeping/mopping 'housewifey' stuff I was getting done around home, and this makes it sound like I spent all kinds of time doing this-- I didn't. I am, admittedly, a 'hit-and-miss' housekeeper. Words like 'sporadic' would also be appropriate. I'll try to ignore anything for as long as I can until I can't ignore it anymore. The irony of this, an oxymoron even, is that I love my surroundings to be clean and tidy and beautiful, or at least interesting and unusual-- and pretty (this is the Libra in me). And I keep declaring to the world that every nook and cranny of my house would be in a pristine condition 24/7, if I didn't share my house with oodles of kids and oodles of cats (and one stinky very sheddy dog). It would be-- really.
On one of my wild hair-up-the-ass days, when I was struck by the sudden urge to dust, I was going to tidy up a shelf I have, which sits at the very end of a very long, very dark hallway, right outside our bedroom doors. Surprisingly, my uber tidy and clean-freak hubby told me to leave it. "
Don't touch it", he says, "
leave it just the way it is."
okay...
