House Proud?

I am not a housekeeper. I mean Martha Stewart would run away screaming if she saw the state of my apartment. The only thing I keep on top of these days is the kitchen, and that is only because I have been running home to cook just about every night of the week.

Other than that, the place is a wreck. Books and newspapers strewn about, inches of dust covering every available surface, a mountain of laundry that actually toppled over and buried one of my cats this weekend. No harm done, but the look of bewildered high dudegon on the mug of the little beast as she dug out from under the jeans was hysterical.

I thought I had some excuse, but I really don't. Somehow it just all got away from me. A friend suggested I hire a cleaning service just this once to put things to rights so I can start over again. But I just can't. I'd be paranoid with a group of women running around out there with the knowledge of just how messy I let the place get.

I did create one little space of order, a corner with the sofa, a couple of lamps, a perfectly ordered bookcase. From this bulkhead, I can survey the wreckage of the rest of the apartment. I can make little sorties out to divide and conquer the mess. I shall overcome.