I could, conceivably, take that extra time and clean, but that just seems wrong to me. I think I'll have to clean this weekend, though. My apartment has finally reached a level of filthiness that not even I can stand, which is saying something.
In order to get from my bedroom to the kitchen, for instance, you would have to navigate through the giant bag of cans for recycling, a bag of trash, the remnants of an old bookshelf, scattered CDs, pants, a torn Hefty bag filled with shoes, something that I think was once a bowl of soup, a big box that once contained a present from my mom but now is knocked over so all the styrofoam peanuts have scattered everywhere, a billion different books, my clean laundry, some random cat accessories that I can't bring myself to throw away, a giant pile of catalogs and a lamp. It's tricky at five in the morning when all I want to do is pee and I'm only half awake. I'm fairly certain that I've stubbed all ten of my toes and fallen over at least twice.
Yes, I will have to clean. It will be nice to finally get my apartment in order and have clean dishes. I'll probably drag my feet a bit at the beginning, but I've found that something magical tends to happen when I start cleaning: I become my mom. I swear it's true. I CAN'T STOP CLEANING.
I can go for hours with a sponge and some adrenaline, cleaning everything I come across. Special K once complimented me on my kami-kaze cleaning style. Do it once and get it the hell over with is my motto.
Then I'll let everything fester again until it becomes so disgusting that I have to clean. It's a cycle, you see.
When I got home from work this afternoon, I called my family to let them know about my big promotion. Woo. My family is so cute.
Dad went around his office with the phone, telling everyone he came across, Big Al congratulated me and then gave me financial advice before sheepishly asking if I thought his girlfriend would notice if he gave her a cubic zirconia instead of a diamond engagement ring. Luckily, I didn't have to answer because one of his female co-workers smacked him.
My mom offered to help me with my managerial style, which, as you might know, is currently something like: "Oh, okay. I guess. Let's ask the director."
Tragically, as I am the director now, there's no buck to pass. The buck stops here. Yipes. So, mom offered to give me some pointers since she currently manages the Community and Family Services department for the county of El Paso (Go mom!) She also gave me a lot of advice with many, many confusing acronyms and said something about cheese, which puzzled me. I should have taken notes.
Anywhoodoodles, I also talked to Special K, who was very happy for me, but had to cut our conversation short because she apparently can't make Uncle Ben's wild rice and talk on the phone at the same time.
I also chatted with Baby J, who informed me very seriously that Barbie and the Little Mermaid, while on a joyride in Barbie's convertible accidentally ran over Ken, and he is now "sleeping". Apparently, the ladies felt so bad about running over Ken, that they decided not to go to the movies as they had been planning, but went shopping instead. Presumably for black dresses.
Eeek! She is soooo cute! It kills me, I swear.
Oh my lord, look at the time...I have to go close the library! I swear, I get to typing and I totally forget about little things like...doing my job.
