Monday, May 17, 2010

Dustbunnies Gone Wild

I used to love hardwood floors. Like, love them. I sincerely thought they were beautiful and every home should have them. My, how things have changed.

When I was apartment hunting for my big exodus to Philadelphia, I stepped into my soon-to-be new abode and instantaneously fell in love. I'm pretty sure I recall myself actually commenting immediately to my mother about the gorgeousness of the hardwood floors. Sure, they were a little old, in need of some repair, what with the gaps between the boards and all. But still! Sigh. I may have even batted my eyelashes at them. I love them that much.

On Moving Day, I remarked to a good friend about how excited I was to have hardwood floors. Considering that she had many square feet of the glorious flooring herself, I was certain to receive a supportive comment back. I mean, really, how could one have hardwood floors and not love them? I probably scoffed a little when she gave me the "just you wait" lecture, declaring that hardwood floors are really nothing short of a total pain in the butt, nearly impossible to keep clean, and the roadway to many'a'dustbunny tumbleweed afloating on by. Pashaw, I thought to myself. It couldn't possibly be that bad. My magic microfiber duster will take care of any tumbleweeds that go blowing through my house!..............right?

Wrong. Along with more dustbunnies that I care to even count, there's the cat liter that gets stuck in the cracks between floorboards. I could probably use my "magic" microfiber duster every 10 minutes and still not keep things clean. Oh, let me tell you. There's no getting rid of it. I could probably crawl on my hands and knees with a straw, sucking at said cat liter, and it wouldn't budge. Those little buggers get in there and get in there good. And its not just the dustbunnies and cracks. There is cat liter everywhere. All the time. I can vacuum the entire apartment and within 2.5 seconds, its covered again. I don't know how it happens. I only have 2 cats, but I swear to you, they multiply temporarily or have invisible demon twins or something. I'm not entirely sure how they do it, but they manage.

I'm considering tying miniature vacuums to their tails. If they're making the mess, they may as well clean up after themselves. And, since they both loathe vacuums, all the running around trying to escape would be sure to mean a much cleaner house for me!

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Futility or Something Like It.

Life. I find the ridiculousness of it to be absurd at times. I mean, seriously, it seems to be nothing but sheer insanity and any "downtime" that one thinks one will have is bound to end up in 3AM condo painting sessions instead of exploring the nightlife of a new city. Or something equally as unexpected. Perhaps not every opportunity at relaxation ends up in life happening as it usually does, but it certain does appear that most do.

As of late, I've been ever increasingly finding myself wishing to spend my days wrapping wire around yellow antique glass beads to make a new and exciting pair of earrings or entertaining myself with writing blogs about whatever my little heart desires rather than wasting away behind a desk, trapped between the three barren walls that is my existence inside a cubicle. I blame this feeling mostly on my damnable creative side that has lately been dying to be expressed. However, I suppose that most feel as if their true passions are eating away at their insides.

I spent a bit of time on an airplane the other day reading an article written about how most people find themselves unable to make true time for their passions until after retirement. How tragic, I thought to myself. It does seem that the unlucky ones, who just happen to make up the majority, spend their entire lives working for a paycheck and not able to do that which makes them feel fulfilled. What kind of a crappy life is that? It seems that existence at that point is merely an exercise in futility with no true sense or purpose.

Sigh. Why can't a book contract fall out of the sky or some fabulous boutique in Philly approach me with a too-good-to-be-true offer to wholesale my craftiness. I suppose that it would help if I would put myself out there more, but that is entirely too frightful.

But, I suppose the alternative may be much scarier in the long run.