This morning Madison said she was sick and since I really had no motivation to work I went ahead and believed her. WINK.
As she was resigned to the bed for the day I decided to do some chores around the house. I got a few things done, dishes, countertops, dining room table cleaned off, bills moved to opposite side of counter so I could clean underneath them.
Eventually I ran out of steam and used folding laundry as an excuse to turn on the TV. Right now as I type this I am sitting next to said laundry as it sits here on the couch right where I left it. I love to have a clean house, who doesn't? I love to come home to clean everything and a made bed. I only have one problem. I hate to clean. I've tried a few different methods. 1. Clean on the weekend (sometimes if I had no plans on Friday night I would clean then.) 2. Clean throughout the week.
Problem. With one method I spend hours cleaning and was exhausted and I had a messy house all week. With method two...well, I'm cleaning every freaking day, that's the damn problem. Hate.
When Joe is home I give up on cleaning until he leaves the house. In fact, I'll wait for that garage door to close when he leaves and I spring into action. Why? Oh, because if we had to be in the same area cleaning then someone would eventually be forced to call the authorities or the nut-house.
I tried to think back to when I was a kid and what my mom did...I remember. We cleaned every Saturday morning. Saturday morning. The national morning for cartoons. The morning that all kids wait all week for. Me? I would dread Saturday mornings. I tried the "sleepover at a friends house on Friday, therefore not having to clean on Saturday" scheme but that didn't work. Momma would just pick me up bright and early.
This is where I acquired my intense nauseous reaction to the smell of Clorox bleach. At our farm house the floors that weren't bedroom floors were made of linoleum. White linoleum. White linoleum that had to be bleached often to retain it white glowing sheen. Vomit.
Fast forward to my 16th birthday when I had the stomach flu (I always get sick on my birthday, non-alcohol related reasons I swear). I'm puking in the toilet in the bathroom, I had recently puked in the bath tub...um, because the toilet was being occupied. So, I feel like I'm just about done and maybe I'm going to live and my mother decides to waltz in a dump 48 gallons of bleach into the tub. MY GAWD. My name is death and I am near. Holy shit. "WHY!?" I screamed. "Why do you hate me?!" I'm pretty sure that little move she did there added about 18 hours to my sickness.
So, solution to my cleaning conundrum? Hire a maid till the kids get old enough to handle the bleach.