I don’t know what it is, but sometimes I get myself into a state where I really want to clean and organize. Trouble is, I usually get myself into this state just about 9:00pm or so when, for my own well-being, I should really be collecting myself and getting ready for bed. Chilling out, really. I should not be earnestly planning a massive house overhaul for tomorrow, either, since I’m already yawning my face off and there’s a whole twenty hours worth of sleep and work between here and there. I give up when there’s such a monumental task in front of me as fixing everything in two hours, getting every last corner shipshape and Bristol fashion, as if I’m a whirling dervish that could manage such a thing. A whirling dervish Mary Poppins.
But, after watching another serving of Downton Abbey over with my mother, I have this terrible craving to commit myself to whatever it would take to get the house in truly proper order. The show has sort of melted into me and despite the fact that they have a staff of over thirty to keep the house from falling to pieces and I have my sister and myself, it sounds sort of wonderful. A chance to be as hardworking and invested in ordered purpose as the maids and footmen of that great house, completely blinding myself to the fact that those people were being paid next to nothing and held by threat of death to maintain those posts. I just think if I pay the mortgage, I should probably be at least somewhat invested in the upkeep of my little Highclere (um, there really isn’t even one iota of adequate comparison between my condo and a giant fucking castle in England, but the mind can bridge even that great a distance).
So, we swabbed out the larder, or the refrigerator, as it were. Definitely needed doing and I’m quite proud of the both of us for sticking in there and getting rid of the exploded soy sauce bottle and the molding broccoli. And the sauerkraut. And all other manner of breeding grounds for disgusting bacteria. Now, it practically sparkles and it begs for me to go to the grocery store tomorrow night so that there’s something in it for me to eat besides some sprouts and a hopefully non-exploding bottle of soy sauce. Something healthful, I hope.
My mother quite likes the blonde hair. She was being cute, but she hugged me and said ‘Ohh, my blonde baby! You and your sister have been foisting this dark hair at me for years.” (Yes, she said the word foist.) I like it, too, and it certainly lightens me up. I need to get off my own back and just get going.
Tomorrow should be a good day. I’m planning it to be. I’ve got the Wii to get my exercise in, I’ve got food to get, water to drink, I’ve got my hair to show off. I’m willing it to be wonderful.