Only Dooce Could Make Scrubbing a Trashcan Seem Interesting

How was your weekend? Wait is this thing on? Or has my sporadic blogging of late frightened everyone away?

It's okay if it has. It is almost a relief. No one to write for but me. I was more successful that way before, just check out my july archives...the beginning. No wait don't, because then you will see that I used to do stuff. But it was summer then and it is winter now. Blogging in the summer is a lot easier than in the winter for the very reasons I will explain to you.

In the winter I am inside. You want to know what I did yesterday? I scrubbed my trashcan, and washed the duvet and cover, which my potty-trained daughter decided to baptise with urine. They are white. Why do I have white bedding in my house? Well for the same reason my furniture is all beige and the rug in the bathroom is off-white. I like throwing caution to the wind. I like holding my breath everytime my daughter enters the apartment, our world of neutrality, hoping that she will not violate the furniture or my carpet or my bed with her grubby fingers. I like screaming at her to stay in the kitchen with that or else.

When I bought my sofas, I got them used in an estate sale and remarked upon the gamble I was taking since I have a preschooler at home. The lady at the helm of the sale just suggested that I cover it all with sheets as she does at her home. How do you keep from laughing in the face of a suggestion like that? If I wanted to cover my furniture with sheets I would have bought it from Value Village; never would I have spent days scouring craig's list daily, hourly, by the minute in search of the perfect furniture. Sure I can cover it with sheets, then I can get out the rabbit ears, cover them with foil and dig up the tv trays. Classy.

So I scrubbed my trashcan and took out the trash. Number one (and only) reason living alone (without a man) sucks: taking out the trash. I hate taking out the trash! It sucks. It's disgusting. And it sucks. Men and trash just go together. (oops, did I write that?)

My daughter was with her daddy. I had the whole day alone, and what do I do? Scrub the trashcan. See why I've had a hard time blogging here lately? You don't want to read my relationship woes here, believe me. This isn't the place for it. So you get to read about me scrubbing out the trashcan.

And hey, I've got even more excitement for you. After I washed the duvet cover....I had to iron it! OOH, the fun police almost got me on that one. Yep, I ironed my duvet cover. I ironed my duvet cover while watching Monsieur Verdoux, a Charlie Chaplin film showing on TCM. It took nearly the entire length of the movie to iron the duvet cover. Talk about an hour plus of quality excitement.

So then after that was done I cleaned my daughter's room, which I'd just cleaned hours before and the day before that. It's much easier to clean it myself, but I know the mom in me should be training her to pick up by herself, but will she ever put the Golden Books with the Golden Books and the Berenstain Bears with the Berenstain Bears just like I like them? (Have I mentioned that I have a trace of OCD? No? Well, Brie van de Camp is my whosiwhats.)

I did watch Troy too while contemplating the scrubbing of trashcans and the washing of duvets, and I must say that it was quiet amusing that in this film it is the men that wear the mini skirts and belly shirts. Orlando Bloom, come to me, my darling. Let me run my fingers through your curly brunette locks. Yum, double yum. I have too much of a thing for those Brits, God hang 'em.

I made myself a dinner of London broil and mashed potatoes. It was supposed to be dinner for one, but I had a guest that shouldn't have been. I would have been better off sticking to lean cuisine.

You know it is time to get a life when the highlight of your weekend is the satisfaction that your trashcan gleams brighter than the sun.