I Cleaned My Bedroom!

And I should be duly proud of that achievement.

I am, too.

I am not, however, currently enjoying its new cleanliness, as I am lurking down in a remote corner of The Girlfriend's basement. I have again taken control of her computer, and am preparing to use it to spread my insidious propaganda.

Or, in layman's terms, I'm going to write about how proud I am of myself for cleaning my room. It boils down to the same thing in the end, really, as I don't know where I put all my propaganda. Probably in a drawer somewhere.

This is an (a) historic occasion, much like my first post here on the Blog, but with more cat hairs involved. The process, which I carried out dressed in only the finest boxer shorts, took a little over three hours and enlisted the help of no fewer than two vacuum cleaners, a bottle of spray cleaner, some boxes and plastic bags, Lucky Piddle Patties (oh, them cats!) and half a cup of pilfered coffee.

I want you, time-wasters, to consider my cat Sprocket. At a guess, I'd say he weighs about 12 pounds, and he's short-haired. Very unassuming. But beneath his goofy veneer lies an extremely efficient fur-dispersal engine, capable of covering a 12x12 room to a depth of six inches in the time it takes me to pour a glass of Cherry Coke. There's a good chance that my Cherry Coke will play host to at least one Sprocket hair by the time he's done, too.

So, upon moving my junk off the floor, where it had been safely and conveniently stored for weeks, I vacuumed the drifts of cat hair out, and put the stuff into closets, on shelves, or into the garbage. I held a running dialog with myself that went something like this:

"Wow. Stupid cat."
"What the heck is this?"
"Heeeey, this isn't mine..."
"Betcha THIS is broken now."
"Eeew."
And of course, the ever-popular, "So that's where this went!"

Have you ever done or created something of such life-affirming worth that you couldn't help but stand there like a moron and beam radiant joy out of your face at all around you? Well, that's what I did.

I stood in the middle of my room, like some retarded sculptor's idea of the human condition, and looked at the carpet. It turns out that it's NOT the same color as Sprocket, but a sort of a coffee-with-way-too-much-cream color. I beamed dementedly at it.

I gazed upon my desk, which had its collection of cat prints and sody pop goo banished to the four corners of the earth by the learned application of spray cleaner and paypa towel. I surreptitiously scratched myself in discreet regions with glee.

Next, my eyeballs directed theyselves upon the empty chair which had recently held a month's worth of clean laundry. I was so happy about this that I fell down.

From my new vantage point, I noted that all the crud and dust and cat debris had been vacuumed from my power strips with the utmost of love and care, and I flopped about like a drugged sunfish, so happy was I.

And then I left to come visit The Girlfriend. But in the back of my mind, I will know that my room is clean, and it will make me happy.