Domestic… Bliss?

I am a self-admitted neat-freak when it comes to the “public” areas of my house.   (Read: I am slightly less freakish about the closets and the garage.   They are horror-shows.)

I vacuum the downstairs at least three times a week… partly because of the way the sun comes in the windows on the pergo, and partly because I slightly flip out when I see a crumb on the floor.   I mop and dust nearly as often.   I’m pretty efficient, so it’s not like it takes much time.   I clean theupstairs slightly less frequently because it’s big and it takes forever and because I get my June Cleaver on when Kenny’s napping, and cleaning upstairs tends to wake him up.   I polish the silestone on the counter-tops with gusto and use the handy Mr. Clean Magic sponges on the scuff marks on the walls with as much zeal as the ladies in the commercials do.   I feel a certain calm when my house is shiny and I (eek) kind of enjoy doing it.

But I will let a load of clean laundry sit in, on, around or next to the dryer, unfolded, until we have completely run out of clothes in the drawers and have so many piles waiting for closet space  that I fear losing Dudley in the masses.   (Exception: I always fold Casey’s shirts and undies right away so he knows nothing of my lapse in good housekeeping.)   I don’t know what it is about folding laundry, but I detest it.   I’ve tried  doing it in front of the TV, folding to the beat of an ABBA tune, and stealing myself with mouthfuls of chocolate chips in effort to get the ball rolling, but in the end, I find myself stuffing the clean clothes back in the laundry closet, promising to get to it later.

In fact, I was in the middle of thinking about folding laundry when I remembered that I needed to write a post.   It is sitting next to me, leering in victory over yet another foiled attempt.