Thursday, May 17, 2007


I just folded all of the linens in our laundry closet. It didn't need to be done, we rarely ever use them, and they were in a semi-orderly pile. But I looked at them and I couldn't silence the voice that said how badly they were folded, that questioned the craftsmanship

The entire closet is now folded according to ESH™ standards. It's part of a cleaning spree I seem to be on.

I'll pause here to let my mother stop laughing at the idea that I'm on a cleaning spree.

Like most of the good things I do this one is guilt based. Catie turns 20 some time around this Saturday, and is having a party. She's also the only one of us who routinely thinks about the cleanness and general presentability of our apartment, and she's the one who thanklessly and without being asked to does most of the cleaning in our apartment. She's also the only girl, which explains but doesn't justify the current system.

While she usually keeps the apartment looking okay, a far mark above that set by my masculine cro-magnon peers, she's upgraded it to fully clean in preparation for her party. It's clean to point that you can feel the room glaring at you if you leave anything out. A single can left behind would once blend in to the native fauna of controllers and CD cases, but now it stands a stark reminder of your crime; an emblem of your shame. The clean has begun to have malice. In the face of that I've seen just how unclean the hall restroom, my room, and the kitchen have become. What is easily a month of miscellaneous sink debris has been cleared, and the mysterious yellow splatter on the door to the laundry closet (seriously what was that stuff?) has finally been wiped free. I'm breaking now before taking on the epic struggle that will be my own room, which has slid steadily downward this past month. It's almost reached the cataclysmic levels reached by my room at home. When I clean that one I plan to bring along a healer, if not a full group.


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