The strange girl on my Klaus is not strange at all. She is lovely. I will be hard-pressed to avoid monopolizing her time while she visits. Already the Shiv and I have invited her to drinks, Sunday brunch, a show, and a dinner party. She is that exciting.
The dear even bought beer last night, in an effort to fuel an apartment-cleaning extravaganza. I was so close to getting the place to sparkle -- I had that rare confluence of inclination and energy I find a prerequisite to any cleaning session; I had dance music; I had 4-0-9. What I lacked, apparently, was a scrubbybrush for my dishes.
"But why," you may ask, "didn't you clean something else, then? And do the dishes after you went to the store to buy a new...did you actually just call it a 'scrubbybrush?' Dork." And normally I might agree with you, except for the fact that these dishes so dominate the psychic landscape of my kitchen that I would find it well-nigh impossible to clean anything without having them out of the way first. They do not just sit quietly in the sink. They are actively dirty. The dishes are dirty at you. They have hunkered down in a squat, ugly, compact tower of hideousness that Lovecraft himself might need to invent another word to describe. That is why the kitchen remains in the state it is in -- all for the lack of a scrubbybrush.
Still, I was able to turn my back on the dishes (I could still feel them lour at me) and scrub down the bathroom. At least one room in the apartment smells like clean. I revel in small victories.