This is really hard to admit, but I have to confess, my house is a diaster. My lawn needs mowed. My flower beds need to be weeded and raked. And inside, oh have mercy. My windows need to be cleaned inside and out, the dustbunnies are forming a union, and whatever you do, don't check the bathrooms too closely.
My husband, bless him, is great at the surface stuff. The bed's always made, the laundry's always caught up, and all my piles are transferred from the kitchen table to the computer room desks (yes, plural, I'm a writer. Albeit, a writer who uses her desks to stack crap to the ceiling, but still a writer).
As Spring sets in, I'm starting to feel the need to clean. I'd like to see out my windows when I'm staring off into space, really I would. I want to be able to wade through the back yard to admire my flowers that will soon be blooming. I want to be able to look under the secretary and not worry that I'll be attacked by an errant dust bunny. These are all good goals.
But cleaning house seems to come at the expense of writing. On my days off, I can stay home and mop the hardwoods or I can go to B&N and write the next chapter. Guess what wins? And as I stare out my water-spotted, dirty window, I feel bad about it. Not bad enough to sacrifice my writing but bad.
So here's the plan. Quite ingenious, if I do say so myself. When I get rich from my writing, I'll hire a cleaning service to help my husband out. I think he'd like that. I think I'd like that. But until then, I'll just have to hope the dust bunnies don't meet the gnomes who will tending the garden.