... and repeat ...

I've been trying to clean my room for about a week now.  I have always found this task painstaking and arduous.  I grew up in a garbage heap, usually with a narrow walking path leading from the bed to the door.  Every few months, my mother would lock me in there and, after about three days of gnashing my teeth and beating my breast, I would emerge a changed (and clean) woman, vowing never to allow my room to get into such a state of disrepair again.  ... and repeat ... 

 In college, I would do my laundry and throw all the cleanies on my bed.  On the rare occasions that I slept, I would climb to the top of the clothing heap and just sink into the clothes, using a sweat shirt for my pillow and a hippie skirt for my quilt (hey, it was usually patchwork). The next morning (or the one after that, at least) I would extract some smushed up (but still clean!) outfit.  When I would finally get back down to my bedspread, I would know it was time to go back to the laundromat always promise myself that NEXT time, my laundry would be properly put away and I would actually use my sheets.  ... and repeat ... 

Before I left for Thanksgiving, I cleaned up my room in my version of spotless (meaning there was some shiz stuffed in boxes and thrown in my closet, but you couldn't see it so it didn't count).  It was vacuumed and dusted.  Two weeks later, I'm back to sleeping next to my mandolin and a tub of Vaseline. I ain't even lying, I just looked over to see what was on my bed when I wrote that sentence.  

But I'm really going to get it all fancied up again by the end of this weekend.  Les bebes love to play in my room and when my junk is all over the place, I get irritated when they're in there.  And I hate that.  I think it's disgusting when people are short with children.  I could see maybe snapping on Trixie because she can be evil sometimes, but Dash - never.  He is pure sunshine and puppies.  

Okay, well, I guess I've procrastinated enough and have to get back to the cleaning.