When we moved into this place, it was dirty. I'm sorry landlord peeps, but it was. It was so dirty in fact that I lost my shit and was regretting signing the lease. There were holes inthe walls where the previous tenants things were hung, the floor made our socks black and the rank miniblinds were broken. Spiders thrived here. As a side note, the shower was the equivilant of a spittle and the fireplace has not been cleaned in at least a decade. The worst part is the kitchen walls where it looks as if someone used one of thoose huge deep fryers to cook their Thanksgivng turkey. Grease was splattred from the stove to above the fridge to the other side of the doorway by the sink.

After having to 409 every shelf and cupboard, I was not exactly keen on scrubbing that wall. Mike said he would do it, but honestly, he hasn't had the time. So I spot cleaned as much as I could stand, but there remains the task of dousing certain parts of the house with 409 and bleaching the remaining areas.

The fact is, the condition of the house would not be acceptable to my mother and therefore is not acceptable to me. Cleanliness is something I have always agreed with her about. Now, our stuff IN the house; that is a different story. It's cozy and nice. I like it.

But I keep imagining my sister washing dishes in that kitchen or my mother-in-law pouring herself a glass of juice in that kitchen and I want to scream. I imagine them secretly feeling sorry for my daughter and whispering about it to their husbands. This will likely not happen, of course, but my imagination is wild. So, guess what I will be doing all week?

I've already started polishing the brass.