I woke up feeling motivated to start fresh after a tough week, and cleaning seemed like the practical first step. Plus, I was getting a little too comfortable stepping over the 12 pairs of shoes in the foyer so I decided it was time to put on my big girl britches and get cleaning.
(Even Bobby - the love child of Mr. Clean and that OCD guy Jack Nicholson plays in As Good As It Gets - has let things slide, as evidenced by the small pharmacy I just cleared off his nightstand.)
After tackling this bad boy, I just didn't have it in me to clean the floor-to-ceiling bookcase by the staircase landing. I love my literature, but what a pain in the ass to dust.
I did darks.
I did lights.
I did whites.
I did sheets.
I did rugs.
I did shoes.
I laundered the crap out of this apartment.
I know it's my fault for letting things get to the level of where it took me five hours to dust, vacuum and finish laundry. I have no one to blame but myself for why I'm now too tired to cook. But... didn't I earn a treat? Boy, does that pizza sound good. Hmm...