The dust is finally settling. I mean, settling an inch thick throughout my entire house. And the banging, hammering, and drilling have finally stopped. My house is quiet again--well, at least in the mornings while Bianca's at kindergarten.
Our basement is unofficially finished. The carpet went in yesterday. I'm anxious to get down there with a mop and a vacuum and a thousand dust rags and go to work. The problem? After five minutes of cleaning, I'm completely worn out.
So yesterday I called around to get some quotes on hiring someone to help me clean the house before the baby comes. (For those who don't know, we've chosen April 23--Shakespeare's birthday--as our C-section day for Portia.) Back to the story, the bids were high, of course. And I know I'll probably just end up doing it myself.
I wish my mom lived here. I'd invite her over for a cleaning party. I love how she keeps herself busy when she's most stressed out or upset. You should have seen how clean my house was after Miranda died. But not only thanks to my mom, people were always showing up on my doorstep with buckets and cleaning supplies and mops then. And a good thing too. I probably would never have cleaned my house then. I have the reverse effect when I'm upset. I sit in front of the T.V. and watch things I loathe, like talk shows and dating games and other nonsense.
And then looking around at a dirty house makes me even more depressed--the physical manifestation that I am entirely too lazy to get up and do a half hour's worth of cleaning. I'm pathetic!
My arms are itching now and I'm starting to feel a little lazy sitting here at the computer. I think I'll grab a couple minutes now to get to work.
See you all later, I've got work to do. The basement's waiting.
