I decided to use my time away from work this week to give our home a really deep clean—you know, with my nose an inch away from the kitchen floor to see if that's dirt or part of the pattern to scrub accordingly. Knowing that every nook and cranny sparkles is a heady rush, and I wish I could maintain this level of clean constantly.

Unfortunately, that would take time that I do not want to pull from elsewhere, and this level of clean makes me not a little neurotic (and Nick not a little miserable):

Don't empty your pockets on the coffee table! Don't leave your shoes on the middle of the floor! Don't do ANYTHING in the kitchen!

If I let the sheen dull just a touch, the comparisons of me to Benito Mussolini are a bit more of a stretch.

I replenished my backup cleaning supplies earlier this week, and I felt very old and boring. I zipped into Target with a bounce to my step and left with two bulging bags. I was giddy, drunk on the shopping spree. I eagerly unpacked my bags the next morning, lining up my bounty on the table to admire my acquisitions.



My, how the times have changed. I had no baubles. There were no flirty flats or swirly skirts. There was nothing fun at all, and yet I was absurdly pleased—so pleased, you'll note, that I had to take a picture. It's times like this that I have to laugh at myself.

I remember giving my mother hell about her cleaning ways when I was a young child. "Why do we have to clean EVERY week!? Nobody else does this! None of my friends have to do this!" You see, I took it for granted that tabletops always shined, toilet bowls always sparkled, and that everybody's home carried the scent of lemon cleaning supplies…all without any work.

Despite my childish protests, she carried me along, and scrubbing became habit ("...Because we respect our possessions," she would say). Still, I vowed that I would never be the fiend that she was. I mean, when she would go to a store, she'd get all glassy-eyed and eager at the cleaning aisle—THE CLEANING AISLE! When Pledge advertised a new product, she'd run right out to get a can.

What a nutcase…

…and the transformation is nearly complete. Pft. I didn't ask for this, you know! It's a sickness, I tell you!

And for Heaven's sake, Nick, it takes one extra step to hang your coat IN THE CLOSET. What do you think this is?—a democracy!?