Let's pretend you're all gearing up for some big kick-ass Saturday like me, in your underwear, drinking an iced Americano out of a mason jar with your iPod blasting, and a to-do list that is scarier than the withdrawal prospects for our various wars.
If that were the case I'd have you all scouting out cob webs, dusting fan blades, wiping door frames, things of a high nature, so as to go low this weekend. This is not to say you can't still do these things, but I know my hopes for you are grandiose at least and fucking preposterous at worst.
Criminally insane in some cases.
Today I'm feeling crevice-ish. I'm watching Keagan, whom I plan to distract with Nickelodeon (shhhhhh, don't tell Susannah) long enough to scrub out the tub, an old nemesis of mine from way back. Once that's done, I will hand him a hanger and a straw and we will get into some corners and low places. (Please make that Garth Brooks song stop in my head.)
After this I have 23703289585 organizational projects to conquer, in my purse, my car, my home, my desk, my iTunes, my brain, ad nauseum. All of this to prepare for the Big Clean tomorrow.
I recently bought a so-called "hand-held" Dirt Devil because of the fucking puppy, er, dear sweet thing we welcomed into our home. It's really big though and I'm hoping it swallows her up. Too much hair. Too much pee. Make it look like an accident. No, I got it for those areas where something has recently spilled and it doesn't warrant unleashing the Kirby. But no one has opened it yet, curious...
So go high if you can, de-clutter, make every movement count. Your best is good enough, it's only mine that is not.
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