Another Saturday, spent goofing off

It's Saturday afternoon, an absolutely gorgeous day, and yet, it's happened again: I got absolutely nothing of consequence done around the house.

It never seems to fail. I get to the end of the week and part-way through Friday, I make note of all the cleaning I want to get done around the house over the weekend. This usually starts on Friday, since that's when I try to clean the bathroom, change sheets, do a ton of laundry, and by the time I get that much done, it's like Okay, I might as well get a start on cleaning.

Realistically, there are two problems with this whole cleaning-the-house-on-Friday-and-Saturday train of thought: my organizational skills, and getting overwhelmed.

First off, I'm not exactly organized. Disorganized would be a more appropriate assessment of my skills. Granted, I'm nowhere near being in the running to end up on A&E's Hoarders, and I'm more organized than I used to be. Most of the dining room table top can be seen and used (it's brown; just push those two or three books over there), no one is going to trip over stuff on the way from the front door through the house (don't look over into that corner, though), and the kitchen floor and counters are scrubbed on a semi-regular basis. But let's just say that I'm as organized as I am graceful.

Quick anecdote: When Paul was alive - a man who'd been a Marine, and was organized enough to prove it - we were the perfect Odd Couple: We may not have been as far apart as Felix and Oscar, but those who saw us in action, especially at home, were sometimes willing to point out that if ever someone did a remake of Neil Simon's comedy with a male and female couple, we might have a shot. I'd come home, place something on the table.

"Is that where that goes?" Paul would ask.

"No," I'd answer. "I'll put it away later." Then I'd get ready to fix both of us some ice tea.

"How about putting it away now," he'd insist. At this point, I'd sigh, roll my eyes ("Oh, can it!" he'd tell me) and head back to the dining room table to put whatever away. We were definitely yin and yang.

Then there's the whole getting overwhelmed aspect of this plan. The house needs to be tidied. So, I'm make a list, which invariably will read, "1. Clean Table. 2. Living/dining room. 3. kitchen..." and so on throughout the house. Nothing specific, such as thinking, "This weekend, I'll tackle the living room, next weekend, the kitchen..." and then breaking it down to manageable tasks: Vacuum. Dust. Organize bookshelves. Nope, gonna clean that sucker stem-to-stern,-top-to-bottom...

By now, it's time to fix another cup of coffee and read the paper while getting myself psyched up. After all, I'll have to put the paper in the recycling bin while cleaning...And the next thing I know, it's Saturday afternoon.

I do have a perfectly good reason for not getting everything done today. M. and J. both decided to get either a touch of the flu or a very bad cold. J. got it first, and for a day or two, sounded like he was going to hock up a lung. Then M. got it. I should be thankful that they didn't sound like Harvey Fierstein this time. Last year, they both ended up with whatever they're getting over, but with a touch of laryngitis that caused them both to sound like the actor/playwright. Especially M. One evening, I came down the hall to start dinner, and could have sworn they were listening to Mrs. Doubtfire: he kept repeating one of Fierstein's lines when he's talking on the phone with his mother ("B*!%h. Not you, Ma, the dog.") and sounding exactly like him. It was funny the first couple of times. Let's just say that I was glad when his voice went back to normal.

But this time, they managed to spread the joy and germs to me. While they'd been walking around feeling pretty stinky and thinking (at least the first day) that the ER might not be bad, then starting to recover, I spiked a fever and got hit harder. Yes, I know, I'm years and years older than they are, and the older we get, the harder it hits us, the longer it takes, et cetera. But considering that I was taking antibiotics for a bacterial ear infection while fighting off this nasty virus (which, of course, as a virus sits there and laughs long and loud at antibiotics) left me feeling like doo-doo. I spent two days napping more than not before pulling a Lazarus and starting to walk around and doing things - like washing the dishes.

Today, my daughter M.H. stopped by, dropped off a couple of things, then headed home to get ready for work. I put the stuff away, ate the second container of soup she'd dropped off a couple of days ago, looked through an Avon book that my rep had dropped off (if anyone in mid-county needs Avon, let me know; I'll pass your number along to her), and basically vegged out.

Now, as I wait for M. to get home from work with a bottle of ginger ale that he's picked up, I can look around at the house and know a few things: There's always next weekend. I needed the recovery day. I managed to update my blog. And much as I love a certain actor/playwright, I don't sound like Harvey Fierstein; his voice sounds much better on him than it would on a middle-aged woman.