Day 39: Domestic Goddess

Mom, stop laughing. I know I don't come close to your meticulously clean household, complete with a sweet elderly dog that doesn't ever knock over bottles of beer or leave a fine layer of hair on everything, not to mention housemates that don't even attempt cooking. But today, I am a domestic goddess.
Planning to spend the day painting and mulling over brilliant new ideas for my novel, I was downright shocked when, at 11 am, I looked down at my hands to find them not whimsically twirling a paint brush but furiously scrubbing my stove with steel wool. Who have I become?
It all started when I started looking for my cell phone, which I misplaced a few days ago. I thought of just saying to hell with the damn phone (since it is already in shambles and barely functional) and surrendering it the army of other lost objects that eventually become my dog's chew toys. But, then the thought came to me that eventually I would have to get a new phone, because despite my romantic notions of becoming a Luddite and relinquishing all technology, I'm too weak. I always cave in.
The phone search led to an organization of my room, which had recently become a quaint, suburban, indoor version of skid row. Had a crusty old lady emerged from under the mass of blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows that I call my bed, I may not have batted an eye. Fortunately, no transient visitors appeared, but unfortunately, neither did my phone.
Before I knew it, I was fervently writing a list of all the cleaning that needed to be done in the whole house, including the washing, drying, and folding of four loads of laundry. I really need a servant. (I would say I need a slave, because slaves are better; you don't have to pay them, but some may construe that as politically incorrect or even racist, when I'm not racist at all. I would be perfectly happen with a white slave.) I get so absorbed with what I'm doing in art, music and writing that it is hard for me to keep up with anything beyond the bare minimum cleaning duties. So all of sudden, when I'm looking for my phone, or playing with my dog, or trying to find just ONE clean fork, I realize that I'm living in war zone. Yes, it's true I live with four other people, but apparently the joke is on me. I am the white slave in this household.
Frankly, I actually enjoy cleaning. It's methodical, physical, and even fun if you are listening to good music. Plus, there's the big pay off at the end... leaning back in an exhausted haze at the end of the day, gleaming with the pride of a job well done...and watching in abject horror as your roommates undo in five minutes the work it took you six hours to do.
Okay, the jig is up. This blog, until now, was a lengthy explanation for why I didn't start painting 10 today. Maybe tomorrow.

In regards to yesterday's blog... I've heard several terrible stories about Brazilian waxing experiences, so I'll cross that out on my little "incentive" list. It came to my attention that although it might be novel and exciting, things that are painful and psychologically traumatizing can't truly be considered rewards. Even if the experience is unforgettable.