Five Things (Casa de Crazy Needs Cleaning Edition)

Five Things...

...on the poor abused futon that serves as both our couch and our emergency back-up guest sleeping space (as long as the guest doesn't mind waking up crippled and/or pretzel shaped in the morning): cat hair (lots and lots of cat hair); two bath towels of indeterminate cleanliness; a roll of toilet paper; my arse print; the finest, most extensive collection of cereal crumbs, chip leavings, and other tidbits this side of the Mississippi.

...under the poor abused futon that hasn't had a break in years and has a cushion that is listing slightly to port because that's the side I sit on and my fifty-acre arse has flattened it beyond redemption: several entities that one could call dust bunnies if one was feeling charitable, and if dust bunnies could be made almost entirely of cat hair; a flattened and "stowed" purple Bongo Bag that was stuffed full of Mega Bloks and living in the garage until I "rescued" it and its contents (which contents are now in the baby's room because every newborn plays with blocks, right? Right.) and may or may not still have mouse...erm...leavings on it despite my having cleaned it several times; a large plastic tray/box insert full of tiny, baby-choking pieces of a zillion-piece farm set that won't fit anywhere else (except one duck that the Evil Genius deemed necessary for another game); part of the cereal crumb, chip leaving, tidbit collection that was deemed unfit for display but still necessary to the collection as a whole; several clods/clumps of something I hope is mud from off Someone's shoes and not the results of some unfortunate kitty digestive distress.

...that need the attention of my bored, neglected fluffy duster thingy, leaning forlornly in the corner waiting for me to love it again: every fan blade on every fan in the Casa - I bet I could shave a c-note off my power bill if I dusted those suckers and lightened the load; the place where the wall meets the ceiling (or vice versa), where I have a well-established community of cobwebs that I should take down and felt into a piece of found-object art that I could sell to help pay the fan-related power bill; the open area above the kitchen cupboards - I think a Hobbit may be wrapped up in one of those dust-danglies; the dining room light fixture, which has more hair than my haven't-been-defuzzed-in-over-a-year getaway sticks; the back of the fridge, a place I have never, ever dusted on the premise that it would take me a year just to clear off off the top so I could move it away from the wall without danger of a crapalanche, and that coat of schmutz is like insulation, isn't it?

...that should be put away but likely won't be before the year is through: the glittery gold reindeer that belongs in the box of Yule related interior decorations that is safely buried in the closet under the stairs behind where Harry's bed would be and is in no danger of being disturbed any time soon; the pile of clean laundry that has a rotating population but never seems to lose mass or density despite the ever-changing contents and frequent relocation from bed to various other furniture venues; the stuff on top of the fridge that makes it impossible for me to live the dream and dust behind said appliance; the mountain of books that teeters at the foot of the bed, waiting for space on the already stuffed-to-the-gills-no-really-one-more-book-and-we'll-collapse-in-on-ourselves-and-make-a-singularity library shelves downstairs; any and all of the millions of tiny, what the heck is this thing? toys and game pieces on the Evil Genius's bedroom floor (his feet haven't touched Pergo this year, and I've cleaned in there, honest!!).

...that should be thrown away, which is saying a lot when the person doing the saying is a freakin' packrat: the camera tripod with the broken, won't lock into place so you can't actually use it as a tripod because it'll go all wonky but maybe we can still fix it leg; the almost empty but if I tip it just right and wait for a while, maybe chant a Zen mantra or something, jar of my favorite lotion that's sitting by the bed; the self-propelled lawn mower that neither propels itself nor mows the lawn because it has an identity crisis and alternates believing it's a coat rack, a large, greasy, gritty paperweight, and an impediment to my walking through the garage without stubbing my toe; the pile of old bills and papers I cleared out of the downstairs closet so we could stow preps in there, said papers being a surprise to me because they used to be contained neatly in a file cabinet that oddly disappeared when T moved out, said filing cabinet being mine long before T and I ever met, but who's bitter?, said papers also being from before T and I met and long past the point of usefulness or necessity unless we wish to start a very large, ink scented fire; the pile of tubs, tubes, and canisters piled up with our home school art supplies because we might one day make them into musical instruments, pencil holders, or piggy banks for various grandparents and other family members, who will then be forced to keep and/or use them so as not to hurt the kids' feelings but who secretly wish they could throw them away when no one's looking because who wants pencils that smell of Pringles or cashews??

How 'bout you? Got one or twelve-thousand things that need doing? Tell me about 'em...