Pigs fly.

Cleaning a new, much bigger apartment is slightly exciting.  I have spent the last two hours scrubbing windows, dusting all the table tops and the tops of picture frames, and vacuuming just to make sure that our new place stays in the tip top shape it was first in when we came into it, and you know what?  I like it.

I'm a bit thrown by this desire to clean that I am seeing in myself lately.  This isn't exactly like me.  Even more suprised is The Husband.  In our first few months of co-living bliss, we had multiple fights about chores; who does what and when and why and all that.  I felt that I would pick up at the pace that I felt comfortable with because that's the way I am and the way I function and that even though his way is something he is used to, it doesn't necessarily mean it should be OUR way.  Now, if you take that logic apart, I'm basically saying that while it doesn't need to be his way, but it should definitely be done MY way.  Somehow, he fell for it.  I credit this to my womanly wiles and amazing rack.  He's pretty sure he was just humoring me.  For a while he would just pick up and then little by little I started to help more and more because I knew my behavior was wrong even though the possiblility of me being wrong at any giving time is SLIM TO NONE. 

Now, though, here I am drying out the sink (?!) on an hourly basis, putting elbow grease to the granite countertops at least twice daily and looking forward to cleaning the toilet which is sitting in the other room right now with about a gallon of toilet duck splashed on the inside walls.  The very thought is a turn on.

So, what's the change?  Why do I want to spic and span the entire apartment on a lazy Sunday when it's 55 outside and SUNNY?  

Recently I saw a spread in City and Town about new homes (page 41 - 43).  Spreads like that are to me what Us Weekly is to 16 year olds.  Blackthorn is my Britney.

Leave a comment -

Liz in Dublin