Some kind of infectious bug has singled me out for abuse. I am sick. I've been sick for several days. My throat hurts and I am suppressing a crud cough. My shoulders and neck hurt and I feel fleh. An indignant voice in my head is still declaring: "I am too important, vital, and necessary to be sick!"
Do you know what hurts more than my throat? I will tell you: I did clean the house last week and it looked and felt so much better than it had in months that I vowed to maintain things and even to make progress with the unpacking, but I am derailed. Sunday night I cleared everything up from the Super Bowl extravaganza. Monday I was fabulous and I not only cleaned but I also unpacked three boxes. Monday night I had an oppressive shadow of impending doom looming over my head. Tuesday morning I was sick. Now it is Saturday and the house is a train-wreck. I am undone. Foiled.
Our vacuum is still dead. It sucks. Not.
We live in this house that I can't change to suit my needs and taste. A toilet clogs every day, and I cannot let anything get in the garbage disposal.
Maria, precious child, is a human tornado. She sorts things according to her personal aesthetic, she pulls things out, she reconfigures, unshelves and reshelves and dishevels everything in her path.
One last point for my own satisfaction and redemption: This is all the fault of moving. Moving is an abomination, a curse, an evil conspiracy. I hate, fear, loath and dread moving. Oh, and another thing, I get terribly cranky when I am sick and haven't slept well.