Cleaning Lady
Daylight Savings is here early this year and — hello, 60 degree weather… heck, I’ll take 50 degrees! — I’m so ready for spring. Spring cleaning, though? Not so much. It’s a painful rite of passage into warm weather that I always dread just a little. And this year it’s even worse: I’m moving apartments after eight years. That’s eight years of hunting and gathering. It doesn’t matter that I make a donation to Goodwill at least twice a year. The bingeing definitely outweighed the purging in my household.
So desperate times require desperate measures. I’ve been on a cleanout of epic proportions. Usually I’m like a benevolent ruler, handing out pardons like it’s Thanksgiving. Sure, I haven’t worn those Prada stretch wool, wide-legged trousers in five years, but hey, you never know when I might grow a few inches and look a little less dumpy in them. This time? No mercy! GONE! I think I’m cool with it now, while everything is still sitting in bags in my foyer, but the minute I carry the bags down to the Goodwill… As soon as I feel like I’m taking my precious buys to be sold into… well, not slavery, but maybe indentured servitude… Well, I just don’t know what I might do!
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