I didn’t get the house cleaning/furniture moving gene. Or the vacuuming one.
No pictures. Are you kidding? Let you see the mess I have wrought with one good foot, a bad back, and a Loratab fog?
As my father would say, Where’s the stick? [You’re supposed to ask, What stick? And then he says, The stick you stirred this mess up with.]
It’s a flippin’ mess. I can’t imagine what I was thinking. Well, yes, I can. It went something like this.
Mom is coming up eventually to wallpaper the ceiling in the cow bathroom.
While she’s here I should ask her to get the little tree out of the closet for me.
There’s no place for the little tree.
There is a place if I move the sofa forward a couple of feet.
Ah, but, now there’s no room for the desk. [I’d rather die than do without the desk. I love desks.]
OK. If I move the Evil Sewing Machine, I can slide the desk down 10 feet and Voila! room for the tree.
Can’t move the desk. It’s too heavy, I have one foot, and my back already hurts.
Take the drawers out.
One inch at a time.
Gaze in horror at the mess behind the desk. [I found Willy’s toad, may he rest in peace.]
Drag out the vacuum cleaner. [I’d rather clean the cat box with my tongue than vacuum, but sometimes you just gotta break down.]
Oh No!!!!!!!!! Where do I go with all the crap on the desk and the walls.
Connie wrings her hands in panic and considers another Loratab.
At present, the Evil Demon of Fabric Manipulation is in the middle of the floor as are the vacuum and the carpet cleaner. There’s a toad carcass, a forest worth of dried leaves, several acorns, and a letter I never mailed on the floor where the desk was.
The puppies are wild with consternation.
I never move furniture. I never vacuum. And Willy is mourning the toad.
It’s my mother’s fault.
My mother sewed, vacuumed and moved furniture the way some women buy shoes or bake. It was a great comfort to her to stir everything up (Where’s the stick?) and then re-assemble it in a completely different pattern – often using the Torture Implement of Bobbinhood to whip up some curtains or table runners along the way. When she’s stressed, she vacuums. Vacuums when she’s happy. Vacuums when she’s sad. Vacuums because she needs to and vacuums because there is nothing else to do. At any one time, she owns three or four vacuum cleaners. She lusts over them in stores like I do desks (and shoes).
I spent my formative years listening to the drone of the vacuum cleaner and bruising my shins in the middle of the night.
I only move furniture around until I have found the exact perfect configuration. I’ll move it round and round for some months, maybe years, and then I find the one setup that works and there it remains until it disintegrates into a dust heap. I term it finding the spot the universe wants that piece in. The family room and the Christmas tree are always a battle. The exact perfect configuration does not accommodate the tree. I was not happy with last year’s arrangement and so here I sit. Completely demoralized as I lose this battle.
And. So. Here I sit. The family room is in complete disarray. I’m completely out of oomph. My foot hurts. My back hurts. And there is a dead toad lying on the carpet.
I hate being a grown-up. I have to clean this up whether I want to or not. And it’s going to involve the vacuum cleaner. And I have to touch [shudder] the Beelzebub of Thread to keep from bruising my shins in the middle of the night as I stumble down here to guzzle Coca Cola. (I never drink soda, but Loratabs provoke a need for massive quanities of Classic Coke.)