(no subject)

"Dear sigerson,

We are writing to inform you that your application for admission to the Master of Theological Studies program is now complete and will be forwarded to the appropriate committee for review. We expect to mail decision letters on March 15, 2005."


Twenty...five...days...

Eep! Eep! Eep!

entropy 1, housecleaning 1, embly 0

Dust.

For most of my life, my housekeeping style has been at best 'relaxed'. I tend to clutter rather than anything else, and an hour of "put this stuff where it needs to go" every couple of weeks clears my head. I vacuum, I clean the counters, I scrub the tub, and so on.

But dusting has always seemed to me to be an unnecessary step. Dusting was what snooty butlers wearing white gloves did. Dusting was a concern of frou-frou'd 50s housewives with plastic on the furniture and an obsession with disinfectant. Dusting just wasn't part of my cleaning regimen, and I felt perfectly justified in that. I mean, who dusts? Lemon Pledge fell squarely into the category of polished cutlery, starched napkins, and ironed t-shirts; a portion of cleaning that only Martha Stewart-grade homekeeping used.

Then I came to live with my beloved sen_no_ongaku, and our small (ish) qat Oob. And for the first time since I was sixteen, I lived in one home for more than two years. And our housekeeping oscillated till it found a comfortable constant; vacuum, sweep, clean the kitchen, scrub the tub...

...Then recently, I was staring at a portion of our home, and thought, "How did parts of this apartment come to look so abysmally filthy?" And it hit me.

We haven't dusted in a very. long. time.

Part of my soul still whimpers, for I have become that frou-frou'd housewife, and gone out and bought the Lemon Pledge. The rest of my soul is actively going "EWWW! ICK! YUK!" as I have started the long, frightening process of dusting the apartment.

I can hear my mother saying "I told you so" from here.