Or What Windex and Elbow Grease Can Do in 1 Hour
I usually keep the door closed so I don’t have to look at the clutter when I walk by, but today I was in search of dirty clothes. So I ended up at her door. Steeling myself, I turned the knob and walked in. I tried to keep my eyes on the prize: the huge pile of dirty clothes smack dab in the middle of her bedroom floor. So far, so good. I carefully bent over to pick the pile up, hopefully in one armload, so I could skitter on out of there without making eye contact with the dust bunnies and dirty plates and cups and old water bottles and an overflowing garbage can, among other things. Mind you, Tory tells me she DOES TOO clean her room.
Pivoting on my heel, I headed for the door. On the next to last step that would take me to cleanness and freedom from dusty clutter, my foot met an immovable object. With a squeak and a thump I tripped, the dirty clothes went flying and T-Rex yowled as if mightily injured. Tory’s cat had skulked in without me seeing him and was sauntering out when I was trying to make my escape. My foot met his belly and a whole lotta mess was the result, although he did look very funny emerging from the exploded pile of dirty clothes with a pink striped sock in his mouth!
Sighing, I picked up Rexy boy, Tory’s fat and happy Siamese companion, gave him a hug and checked him for internal injuries. My foot was throbbing, but he seemed fine, purring his stop-start purr of happiness so I put him down.
And I turned to pick up the dirty clothes. And my eyes saw all the crap and I knew I was sunk. To begin at the beginning, I went downstairs and started the first of six loads of laundry, then climbed the stairs back up to Tory’s aerie. Armed with Windex, paper towels, static-reducing dust cloths, and a heavy duty vacuum I stormed her room: 15 minutes on the closet alone, including scrubbing her mirror and the makeup stains alongside it; 15 minutes crawling around the baseboards dusting what seems like mile-high dust bunnies; 15 minutes on her desk, taking the nail polish and creams and dirty dishes and used and worn out stuff off of it then windexing the bejeebers out of it; and finally, vacuuming the floor, which included sucking up hairpins, the little black bally things from Astroturf softball fields and tiny clumps of dirt, again softball related. One hour, a mere 60 minutes, later, I closed the door, a happy Mom. . . then remorse set in since I didn’t know how Tory would feel about a clean room. I guess I’ll find out. . .fingers crossed. . .