coming clean about my dirty mind
To say that cleaning my house gets me a little turned on would be an understatement. A really, really embarrassing understatement.
I realize in the past, I've led you to believe I disliked cleaning, and I confess now I did that so as not to appear odd (some would say more odd) or weird (others would say more weird, whereas I would say weirder) to you (at least two of you would say more than you already do). Bear in mind that when I confessed this alleged disdain for cleaning, I did so in a post in which I trumpeted the joys of cleaning while naked (Go on and go read it. I'll wait.), and when I sat back and read it upon it's completion last year, I thought, "Yep, you know, the naked thing really does sell it. My work here is done. Kudos, me!"
So, to turn a phrase, today is the day I'm coming clean (while fully dressed, I should add, because confession, while delightful, is not akin to actual cleaning, thus it requires clothing) and admitting my love affair with cleaning. I'm a wee bit, shall we say, anal about cleaning.
When I clean, I'm giddy with the idea of transforming the disgusting into the delightful. Restoring order where once there was chaos makes my skin flush. The feeling of satisfaction brought on by cleaning closets burns through me and compels me to fondle their knobs, and swing open their doors just so I can admire (aka lust over) the newly achieved storage space, neatly folded towels, and perfectly aligned rolls of toilet paper.
Mmmmm....I had me at perfectly aligned rolls of toilet paper...
You probably think I'm kidding, especially since a few paragraphs back, I outted myself as a bit of a liar (or we could say embellisher of yarns and amusing bon mots), but in this instance, I absolutely am not. Just ask my Tool Man. He'd tell you that, on more than one occasion, he's discovered me, head-first in the refrigerator, body illuminated simply by it's light, as I drink in the heady scent of cleaning products, and admire the gleaming shelves of perfectly organized yogurt cartons and rows of condiments.
I just totally gave myself the shivers typing that! You know like the kind of fluttery delightfulness that runs through your body when you first see a cute guy you know you're going to kiss (or Backpacking Dad)(but probably minus the kissing)? Yeah! Totally like that!
Seriously. Cleaning turns me on.
Alas, I've come to the conclusion I might need to nip this pleasure in its delightful (and dust free!) bud. See if you agree: After hours in my kitchen spent organizing shelves and wiping down cabinets, after cleaning out the refrigerator from top to bottom, I got my super sexy Dyson out to vacuum the floor (and perhaps the toaster)(and my broom)(do not judge me). When every nook and cranny of the floor was clean, I grabbed the vacuum hose and a long attachment, and crawled into the garbage cabinet, ready to do battle with anything that lurked there. With my head in the muck and my ass in the air, I was pushing and pulling the vacuum hose to and fro. Gleeful? Indeed. So much so that, when I felt something suddenly smack up against my ass (which was bouncing along to the cougary songs of the Jonas Brothers), I was all, "Hold on, baby! Just let me get into this back corner here and I'll be right with you! I am so turned on right now! Look how much gunk I sucked out of the garbage cabinet!"
Except no one responded to my seductive tones. All I could hear was the hum of the Dyson (and the beating of my heart!). I'd just been hit on - and responded to with sexually charged, cleaning enhanced lust - by my vacuum! And I liked it!
I'll close by confessing that I've let my house go to pot a little bit this week, because, clearly, if I'm responding to the smooth, flirtatious ways of my vacuum, I need to focus a little less attention on waxing my floors, and giving more toward sprucing things up with my Tool Man.
However, Tool Man does seem to have a thing for when I'm down there scrubbing toilets...
Labels: another one bites the dust