Somtimes I blog. Sometimes.

I do think that I'd be pleased as punch if I did more blogging, if I posted links to articles that struck my vitals and let loose the commentary. It's not going to happen.

I clicked a link that my friend linked and it linked me to an article about how to clean your house (not shiny sparkle clean, more of a whitewash functional clean). Something I'm personally working on right now is not cleaning. My daughter is five years old and learning to write. (She can read now and it is truly outrageously amazing.) In her journal with monkeys on it, I found the words "clean house up." Where did she see this list in order to copy it? Did she ask me to spell it for her? Has she already caught on to the mania that is my daily routine of getting nearly all of the dishes done (but not all), rounding up the dirties behind the bathroom door (but missing the inevitable next pair thrown down), organizing school stuff, setting out shoes, picking out outfits, straightening the rug (to have it slung askew by the dog shortly thereafter), wiping down the sink, switching out towels, collecting stray drinking glasses full of lukewarm water, general tidying, sweating, huffing, puffing, and sad face?  My son says, "Why you not have a happy face?" as he hands me another empty, dirty cup.

I'm trying to be gracious and give everybody a break and STOP CLEANING. It is never complete, it is never clean enough, it is never going to be and it will never make me happy. Last night, I could have done a few loads of laundry, washed the other half of the dishes and cleared the table. What I did, however, was eat the last of the fritos, the chex mix, a sandwich, and watched five episodes of Breaking Bad. Breaking Bad is a 48 minute show. I drank wine and went to bed at midnight with headache, a creepy gluttony feeling and indigestion.

I think I should have cleaned.