Grant me the serenity . . .

Well, I feel like airing dirty linen today (ha, ha – you’ll get the joke in a second). Why else have a blog if I can’t discuss frightfully unflattering things about myself?

My house is a mess. I mean a real, serious, how do I live like this mess. Not a health hazard as far as food, mold or hazardous waste, but you do take the safety of your limbs into your own hands trying to walk across a room. And I just don’t seem to have the motivation to clean it up right now. I keep looking around at the squalor and think, “You know, this could be a sign of depression. Am I depressed? I don’t think I’m depressed. I would know if I was depressed, right?” Because the amount of chaos would indicate a serious need for medication.

Part of it is that it’s dead in the middle of summer. And I feel like I should be playing. Or laying on the couch and watching cartoons. Summer always returns me to a very 11-year-old state of mind. Part of it is certainly that I hate cleaning. I’d rather stand naked in front of a packed auditorium and deliver a speech on the joys of fascism to a hippie convention than clean. I’d rather eat pickled okra and beet salad than clean. I’d rather listen to my mother talk about politics than clean. I really hate cleaning.

So usually if I can stay on top of it, so that there is general order that is easily restored, I’m cool. I can maintain for a really long time. But once it goes to the bad place, I’m screwed. It takes a major order of cleaning to come back from the Bad Place. I hate the Bad Place. But evidently not as much as I hate cleaning.

And it’s getting in the way of my life. Number one, I can’t have people over. And I do love having friends come by for drinks and bites. Plus, there’s the rotten feeling that I can’t look any place in my house without feeling vaguely dissatisfied. And slightly betrayed that I was not born wealthy enough to have a maid. Or at least a cleaning service. That I have to clean up after myself . . . there’s no justice in this world. Pout, pout, pout.

But until that Lotto hits (come on lucky numbers!), I guess I’m stuck doing it myself. My horoscope said today was a good day to deal with issues that I’d left hanging (and I really wish they’d stop spying on me). I guess that means that I need to get off my duff and quit acting like Queen Baby and get my orderly act together. Or at least do one room. I can do one room. I can. I can. Whoo yeah! Go team! Get psyched! Pump it up!

God, it must be wonderful to be a neat freak. Lucky bastards.