I didn't mention this yesterday, and I'd meant to, because you are all, of course, supremely interested in the minutiae of my housekeeping travails; I successfully scrubbed my kitchen floor.
This is no small thing.
I've been glaring at the floor, and it has been blandly, and grimily, staring back at me for a number of weeks now. It's a grey stone floor, which is all too good at hiding dirt. I've been sweeping it daily, and I've done mop cleaning at least once in the last couple of weeks, so it's not as if I've been a complete slob.
I have been at least a partial slob. I don't like being even a partial slob.
So yesterday, I put on knee pads, donned rubber gloves, hauled every movable item out of the kitchen, grabbed a scrub brush and rags, and bent to the task with an irritable will.
The cats side-eyed me - I'd moved their food dishes and litter box and they thought that suspiciously unservile of me.
I didn't care.
Because at the end of the entire, sweaty (and I do mean sweaty) exercise, I had a clean floor. A really, really clean floor.
Reader, I rejoiced.
I know full well that there are many amongst you who wash floors daily or at least weekly. I might once have hung my head in shame at my less than stellar housekeeping practices. No more; I don't feel quite as ready to admit my domestic science shortcomings these days. And more, I don't have the spoons to indulge in the kind of housekeeping heroics at which my grandmother excelled.
Tonight, however, I can look at my kitchen and feel a certain amount of pride. Go, me. This entry was originally posted at https://kaffy-r.dreamwidth.org/800772.html?mode=reply, where there are currently comments. You can comment there or here, but prefer to read over on DW. You can comment there using open ID if you don't have a DW account.