nixtress's Diaryland Diary

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Dust is the enemy

The dust in my house is killing me. I wish I had the money to install one of those mondo-hugondous air clarifying systems that keeps a house nearly dust free.
Tonight, though, it's my own fault. Really.
My bedroom is generally the last room in the house that gets cleaned because it's about the only room that never gets seen by anyone but me. I'll admit, it had gotten bad---clothes everywhere, things stacked haphazardly on available surfaces, dust about five feet thick, a bed that was begging to be made JUST ONCE, PLEASE JUST MAKE ME ONCE and a closet that was coughing out everything from Christmas wrapping paper to luggage and everything in between. I felt motivated and froggy so I jumped. Right into the middle of hell.
It took me nearly four hours to find my way out of that mess. And the dust...OH, the dust! I swear it lies in wait in even the bottom of the closet, waiting for the day it can be stirred up, waiting for the day it can be inhaled by me and have it's revenge. There was dust on the small television, dust on the computer, dust on the shelves, dust on the window sill even! Dust, dust everywhere. By the time I was done cleaning, I had my inhaler in hand and was sucking it down.
I feel much better now. It looks all neat and tidy, for about two seconds. By tomorrow morning, the bed'll be a mess again and it won't get made for another month. I think I can manage the rest for a bit.
***
The boys had a blast with Ave today. I think I've heard fourteen times that they want their OWN laser tag set. Ave didn't want to go home, either. He kept begging his foster mom to stay at our place. Poor kid.
***
TheOldBatNextDoor is going to Kentucky for a few months. She stopped over to thank me for fixing the fence (ha!) and to let me know that if her yardwork didn't get done for a while, it was because she was out of town. Like I care whether her leaves are raked? Psht. I barely get mine done half the time, I don't have time to keep track of hers.
I think she just wanted to tell me she was leaving. Poor OldBat.
***
The laundry is singing my praises. Time to scoot.
Happy weekend, all.
N.

7:22 p.m. - 2005-11-05

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