Jeremy cleaned the apartment last week. Hearing the words, “I’ll clean tomorrow, don’t worry about it,” was nearly as magical as, “Will you marry me?” Or in our case, “Well?”
It was also about as exciting as receiving a letter from the doctor last year that stated something along the lines of, “Congratulations! After a thorough investigation of your nether regions, we’ve come to the conclusion that you do not have cancer.”
Which was cool, but unfortunately was followed up with something like, “So you’re never-ending menses and need to keep a tampon supply within reach at all times really has no explanation! Cheers!”
So, I’m not really sure how I got from house cleaning to menstruation, but whatever. Jeremy cleaned. Whoa.
I’ve been on a once-a-week cleaning streak since we moved in. Every Thursday is cleaning day. And I realize that makes me crazy, and also partially proves the hypothesis that I am a cat lady, but you should see how clean our apartment is!
Instead of spending an hour of my night with the vacuum cleaner and Clorox wipes and dusting spray, I napped, and dreamt of rainbows and kittens and pink, and reveled in the glory of knowing I wasn’t responsible for vacuuming my hair off the bathroom floor.
I realize this is not that big of a deal. And I’m not saying I’ll die if I miss a week of cleaning, or that it’s amazing that my husband offered to do things like clean the toilet and dust my overflowing bookshelves, but, well, that is what I’m saying.
So it was a good week. And I’m still basking in its glory, because before I know it, it’ll be Thursday again, and I’ll be sweeping up cat litter and wiping day-old toothpaste off the sink.
Sometimes I loathe being obsessive compulsive.