Splish Splash, I was Taking a Bath

CB101810No, I wasn’t.  I was actually cleaning my refrigerator, but that didn’t sound like a snappy title, so I didn’t use it.

I hate cleaning.  I hate in more than just about anything in the world.  I hate the fact that the minute you clean, you see a piece of dirt that you swear wasn’t there five seconds ago.  I hate it because there is no end result, except for cleanliness.  Ok, I gotta admit, it’s nice to have a clean house, but not nice enough to do it on a regular basis.

Once I clean, I turn into a fishwife, screeching, “Don’t fight there!  I just vacuumed the carpet!”, and I don’t have any damn children.  No, I just have two black-furred cats who think it’s the bestest thing in the world to fight ON MY CLEAN CARPET!  Then, they leave tufts of black fur on the beige carpet, and I have a conniption fit.  Why give myself that kind of stress?

Because, my mom is coming to visit.  I have to clean before she gets here.  Now, if I were smart, I would do a little at a time, but I’m not that kind of smart.  Besides, I work best under pressure, so I put it off until the last minute, and then I work straight through the nights to get it done.   Normally, my mom arrives at eleven at night.  She’s coming on Tuesday.  I thought that would give me Friday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday to finish cleaning.  She called me to chat a few days ago, and she mentioned that she was arriving at six o’clock.  Huh, what?  Oh, ok.  I can do six.   Sure, it cuts off a few hours of my cleaning time, but–what’s that?  Six in the fucking morning?  No, I don’t DO six in the morning, unless I am still up by that time.  She hastened to assure me that my brother would be picking her up.  He lives ten minutes from the airport, and he’s a morning person.  I informed her that he damn well better be picking her up (without the swearing, of course) because I don’t DO six in the morning!

What that means, though, is that I have twelve less hours to clean.  It threw me for a loop, but I womanned up, girded my loins, and proceeded to procrastinate.  I would do an hour, and then I would stop to check the intertoobz for any urgent news.  I would do another hour, and then I would stop to watch the Twins game.  Saturday was a complete wash because I had taiji and then the Saints game at night (and, of course, I had to watch the Twins game in the afternoon).

So, I’m coming down to crunch time.  It’s T-31 hours until Mom is here.  No excuses.  No fear.  Tonight, I did the chore that I hate the most, yet also the one that is the most enticing:  I cleaned the fridge.  I do it once a year, and it’s very intense.  First, I dress in my boxers (South Park this time) and a sports bra.  I pull my hair into a high ponytail, and then braid the ponytail.  I crank Erasure’s The Innocents on my portable CD machine–yes, I am old-school, so sue me, and then I get to cleaning.  I take out all the food and all the shelves, an’d I clean the whole damn thing.  It takes approximately an hour.

I had forgotten that while it’s hard work to clean the fridge, it’s also very sensual.  Don’t laugh!  It is.  I have all this cold water splashing over my hot skin (this sounds like a Penthouse Forum letter.  “The next thing I knew, my sports bra had fallen down!”).  I would rub the cold water up and down my arms and on my breasts whenever I got overheated.   I’m not very careful, so I was splashing water onto my boxers as well.  The water felt really good running down my bare legs.

Then, just as I was finishing up (and contemplating going inside and shutting the door), the song, River Deep, Mountain High came on, and I immediately started dancing.  It’s a high energy song that really gets the blood flowing.  I cleaned and danced at the same time.  I enjoyed it so much, I played it again.  I love dancing.  In fact, it’s my preferred method of exercise.  When I put on some music and just start dancing, nothing else matters.  I took dance lessons from age 2 until age 14 (tap, ballet, and jazz), so I’m pretty good at it, when I’m not tripping over my own feet.

Dancing is so fucking sexy.  Yes, I know I am repeating myself, but it is.  When I am in a club and the music is pulsing away, all I want to do is dance and fuck.  I like prowling around the floor, checking out this hottie and that.  It’s especially thrilling when there’s an exchange of glances, and perhaps, numbers.  Dancing with someone is so fucking hot.  There’s a reason religious schools ban dancing!  It’s like sex standing up (which is also nice).

Ahem.  I digress again.  So, with a last burst of energy, I finished cleaning the fridge.  Then, I did what I always did when the fridge is completely empty.  I stared into it longingly.  See, I have had a desire to sit in my fridge and shut the door ever since I started cleaning it yearly.  It looks so comforting, and it’s cool.  Not cold, of course, as I unplug the electricity before cleaning it.  I want to climb in, sit down, and shut the door.  Two things stop me.  One, I live alone, and no matter how many times my brother assures me that I can open the door from the inside, I’m chary of trying.  I asked Natasha if she would come over and sit with me while I climbed in, and she just gave me a strange look.  Kiki laughed at me, but she said she would.  Unfortunately, I like to clean late at night, and she doesn’t stay up that late.

The second reason I don’t do it is because I just cleaned the fridge!  It’s nice and sparkly clean, whereas I am sopping, grimy, and sweaty.  In other words, it would kinda defeat the fucking point for me to sit in my clean fridge when I’m so dirty.

Then, afterwards, I was so, pleased that I washed up a bunch of strawberries, cherries, and grapes to savor as I write this blog entry and listen to sexy tunes.  Oh, and I wound my braid up into a bun to get my hair off my neck.   Once I’m done blogging and savoring, I’ll clean out the litter boxes.  After that, it’s nekkid vacuuming time!  That’s the real reason I like cleaning at night.  I can strip naked and not worry about being seen.  I get really hot when I clean, so I like to wear the minimal amount of clothing when I do it.  Ok, ok, I like to wear the minimal amount of clothing at all times because I’m always overheated, but it’s especially bad when I clean.

Then, I just have mopping and laundry, and I’m done.  You know, as much as I hate cleaning (and I hate it a whole hell of a lot), I enjoy being able to tick off each item on my mental list.  It actually feels as if I’m accomplishing something.

5 Responses to Splish Splash, I was Taking a Bath

  1. I lived with a guy who insisted we do naked Friday. This meant coming home from work and cooking naked.
    Now I have done lots of stuff naked. I had a g/f who lived on one of the islands around here. Her yard was set back off the highway. We would do yard work and gardening naked. There is something to be said about a birthday suit outdoors.
    Naked Cooking advice? Avoid bacon and shrimp and anything you have to fry.

  2. I had to laugh at your comment about the cats fighting on the carpet. I was on the phone with my girlfriend the other night and my son came in to show me the dog bite wound on his hand. My first words were, “If you bleed on my carpet, I will have to kill you.”

    As I listened to the hysterical giggles on the other side of the phone, I realized how bad that really must’ve sounded. 🙂 But jeez.

  3. whabs, frying and nekkidness? Ouch. I am too much of a clumsy person to cook nekkid. I like my lady bits unscathed, thank you very much! I wouldn’t mind doing outside work naked, though. I love it when it pours late at night because I can run outside, naked, and just revel in the downpour.

    Kel, hahahahahaha. That sounds like something I would say in that situation. Seriously, though, blood stains are a bitch to get out of carpet. I can understand why you gave out the warning.

  4. Feh. One night back in high school, my job was to cook the french fries. So, I’m cutting up the potatoes and, with my natural grace, chopped off the end of my thumb. When he came to investigate the scream of pain, my father’s first response was, “We don’t need protein in the fries. That’s why I’m grilling the steaks.”

    Fortunately it turned out not to be that serious, or I might have been scarred for life.