Yesterday I decided I *must* keep up with my housework, or else things are going to be mighty scary around here.

So far, I’ve swept, and sorted through the surpurfluous pile of papers from my college days.  (Don’t worry Mom, I kept all my tests in case I need to refer to them sometime down the road.)

That leaves:

  • Dishes (ick)
  • Vacuuming (spiders, beware!)
  • Laundry
  • General Tidying

[edit] Lovely.  My vacuum was acting funny, and so, I fooled with it and must have tripped a fuse.  Now, my vacuum doesn’t work (could be the outlet), my washing machine doesn’t work, and half the lights in the living room won’t turn on.  Heh.  Leave it to me…. [/edit]

And:

  • Filling all the near-empty hand-soap containers
  • Filing all my chaotic sheet music
  • Weeding my writing drawer

This also doesn’t count the fact that I’ve got other things to do too, such as paying bills and that sort of thing.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so creative, because if I wasn’t so creative, I have a feeling I’d be TONS better at the home-maker organizational thing.  I’d have the perfect, neat and tidy house, ALL the time.  I’d have scrumptious meals cooked *on time*, and there’d never be a mud-spot on my floor because I’d have it wiped up no sooner than it was made.

Unfortunately, I’m a writer.  I find it more fascinating to drift into the worlds of my creation, putting a pen on fire with words to paper, than to sit around scrubbing the sink-traps while humming a song like Snow White.  (Like right now, for instance.  Those dishes are calling to me, but I’m sitting here typing a post.)

At least my husband is relatively patient with my haphazard system of life.

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