Mr. Clean, eat your heart out!

I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I am a notoriously messy person.  It doesn't matter the size of my living space--I am guaranteed to fill it with crap.  I think it's a sickness.  Lately, it's gotten out of hand.  There are clothes all over my apartment, in laundry hampers, on the couch, on my bed, hanging off the backs of chairs.  I also have a cat, and for all you non-pet owners, animals shed.  a lot.  So when you walk through my living room, the clouds of stuff that you kick up?  That would be cat hair.  Oh, and come into my dining room, why don't you?  Oh, you didn't realize it was a dining room?  That's probably because you couldn't see the dining room table under the mounds of magazines and mail.  Like I said, I think it's a sickness.


...until this weekend.  I finally broke down and called my mom, who can clean anything.  (Her mother, my grandmother is the same way.  I'm hoping there's a "clean" gene in our family, and that it kicks in soon.)  The great thing about my mom is that when she saw the state of my apartment, she didn't utter one word of horror or disgust.  Instead, she just squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and dove right in.  Of course, I did my best to keep up with her, but I was soon left behind.  Like an amateur trying to play with the pros.  It took us (and by us, I largely mean my mother) all weekend, but by lunch time today, it was like a brand new apartment.  And I gotta tell you, I feel better.  I don't feel as if I'm about to have a panic attack.  I'm not coughing up hair balls.  And I actually rediscovered about half of my wardrobe that I thought was missing.


So the lesson learned today, folks, is that a clean apartment is a happy apartment.  (For now.)