It's the truth, though. I hate cleaning. I like doing laundry, all the way until the clothes are folded and put back in the baskets to be shoved in drawers, "later". I like sweeping, because the results are so conclusive. HATE dishes. Loathe and despise. Detest. HATE. I am also not so fond of cleaning bathrooms. That one is kind of a circular whats-it, I hate cleaning it because it's disgusting, and it's disgusting because I hate cleaning it.
Another flaw, I put things about. Like stacks of papers, over here. And a pile of clothes to be hung, here. And this dangerous screwdriver or what have you, way, way up here so no one in particular will stab their sister with it, or stick it in the toaster, because "I just need to cook this."
(disclaimer: some of this is humor, and I do in fact keep the house clean enough for CPS to have a place to sit, if they scoot over a little laundry.)
All this to say, I am trying to pick up the joint a little, since my MOG is coming home from Caleefornia today, and he is a bit of a neat freak. ("Neat freak is a term made up by lazy people," he counters. Freak.) So I have been doing a little here, and a little there, oh, and I bleached the bathtub. So that's gonna make a good impression. ("Egads!" he'll say, stepping over a laundry hamper with 6 baby dolls a shredded coloring book, and a shoestring. "Look at this tub! It's like the wind-driven snow!" That's what he'll probably say, anyways)
One of the problems is, I tend to get a bit distracted. Like now, with the blogging and such. Next to me is a giant stack of clean laundry, just waiting to be sorted and folded and put in baskets
for us to dig through for a week to be put away, lickety-split. Right after I do some other stuff.
In my defense, it is pretty hard to clean amidst the tempest that is Toby. This is him, post-nap, ZERO sugar, ZERO red dye. Just pure energy.