Sweeping the floor

About sweeping that kitchen floor—let's just say, I'm easily distracted. Call it ADD syndrome or short attention span. It began innocently enough last week with a light sweeping, then some damp mopping. Within the realm. Then I scraped off some white paint. OK. 

It's an old house from the 1920s, and the fake brick tile from the 1970s is crumbling at the seams. So I spackled some holes, it was whitey-white, so then I faux-painted the patches. 

I'm dangerous with paint. I start out all precise and neat, call it anal retentive, a dainty little patch job. Then something comes over me and gears shift. Vroom, I'm off! I become a demented Jackson Pollack with a paintbrush in hand. The graffiti tags on the bookshelf I just scored? No problem. Faux wood grain coming up. That hole in the wall that I keep trying to kill because it brings out my inner spider killer? Spackle (or toothpaste) is good.

It's a good thing I'm wounded, or I would've tackled rotted bathroom too. Turns me into a rather addled cross domestic war goddess. Moving the piano across the floor didn't help either. 

Since I can't bend my knee, getting down to floor level is an act of gravity—as in prostrate. Cross-legged is not an option. So I have to keep my leg straight out in front of me. It's a formidable barrier. I'm flexible, but not that flexible. Getting back up off the floor is a journey involving anti-gravity prayers and curses when those AG prayers don't hold. 

What possessed me to clean house, other than an acute attack of ADD, was that I could smell Autumn in the air, even though it is still July. Something about the changing light invokes an inexplicable sadness, or melancholia as the fall approaches. Or maybe it was the odor of dead mouse.

So as I was cleaning house a little here, a little there—oh, shiny! What was I doing? Takes me ages to complete simple tasks. I was dying for a cup of tea. The pilot light blew out on the stove. Hours later, I've dismantled the entire stovetop and counter, scraped off a decade of grunge from under the burners. Cleaned the greasy spice jars too. Tea? What tea? Can't reach the oven unless I use a chair and there's only so much I'm willing to do. 

I've been flopping down like a a fish and rolling about like a drunken narwhal to get from point A to B, while swearing like a sailor. Rearranging my computer space with all the plugs on the floor (and in tight corners) involved a lot of groveling and snorting of dustbunnies. 

My physical therapist said, So don't clean house! Like that was an option.

But there's only so many months you can go it alone before the floor turns to foot-velcro. It all began when a mouse left turds on the breadboard. That's a call to war if ever there was one. Traps, poison, shoes—I'm a shameless hunter when it comes to mice. 

I think a mouse died under the sink (good old D-con makes them thirsty so they seek out water.) but I can't get down on the floor and under the sink with my leg out in front of me like a freakin' log to check it out unless I lie flat on a skateboard. The dog pose is not an option.

Don't even get me started on the fridge. It's jealous and wants my attention too. I know this because it pees on the floor.


A link:
MOUSE WARS