It has been well documented here and in my offline life that I hate cleaning. I would assert that I have despised it my whole life, but my mother claims that until the age of four I was terribly tidy and loved to help her around the house. The only proof of this is a photograph of me at the age of three with a vacuum, but I think the fact that I am still in my pajamas and am also busy smearing my face with a chocolate muffin is more telling.
I don't know if it's the change in weather or the vegetables I've been eating or the anti-depressants, but my brain had one of those a-ha! moments this morning and thought it would be a really good idea to switch half the furniture from one room with half the furniture from another and move every other bloody remaining piece to accommodate the change. That a-ha! moment I had earlier can kiss my ass, because after toiling for the better part of the afternoon, I have managed to take two decent rooms, the living room and the office, which only really needed a good straightening and wipe-down, and thrown them into such disorder that it will take me another few hours to sort it all out.
Exhibit A: the office
Exhibit B: the living room
In the midst of all that, I was running up and down two flights of stairs to do eight loads of laundry in the basement. Oh jeebus, wait, I have to show you the basement. Just a sec.
This is one of the storage rooms, or so I've been told. We could use one, but there are all these ancient pipes and NO ELECTRIC LIGHTS. For serious, who would venture down there in the dark? I was very courageous once and stepped into one of the rooms. I couldn't see much, so I stuck my hand out, and everything I touched was covered in a thick mounds of dirt. When I put my foot on something soft on the floor, I left. Ick.
This is what's behind me when I am at the washing machines. There is no electricity in that part, either, so I had to use my flash. Normally it is inky black, and it makes me fear hobos hiding from the cold.
As a rule, I don't do laundry at night. Or during storms. Or when I'm jittery. Those imaginary hobos wear old sackcloth that sticks to their oozing faces and they have chainsaws or knives for fingers and they're super tall with one dead eye. I swear.
* I, of course, do not advocate mixing medication with alcohol. That is for the Presleys and Minellis of this world, and perhaps a Schmutzie, who is on vacation and has few, if any, responsibilities.
** Here's a photo tip for you: when trying to capture your kitty's big, moony eyes, do not use the flash three inches from his face while in a dark room. He'll just look squinty and kind of decrepit.