Pointless Housekeeping

Today I came home from work and got a major itch to clean, which is really bad timing since our house is torn apart due to floor-installation.  Right now our living room is about a third done, and all of our furniture is crammed on one side of the room, half-blocking the kitchen (you should see how snug I am right now, nestled with my laptop in-between a couch, coffee table, and shelf unit).  So I told Clint that while he was at the dojo tonight, I was going to clean the house.  He laughed and pointed out the futility of such an endeavor, but I didn't really care.  When I get this sort of craving to clean, it's usually because I'm dealing with stuff at work that seem so never-ending and insurmountable that I just need the feeling of starting and completing simple tasks.  It's a sort of therapy.  So as soon as Clint and the kids left, I blasted the music and did the dishes, cleaned the counters, swept the floors, cleaned up our faux livingroom, lit some candles, and did some laundry.  I even arranged the crammed furniture so it resembles a miniature living room...like the kind of display you see in the gallery of Living Spaces, or Ashley's Furniture in those moments where they don't have a semi-truck protruding through their front entrance.  Now I'm sitting here in the middle of my clean house, trying not to laugh (or cry) at the fact that after all of my effort, there's still a tile saw in my living room, heaps of wood piled against the walls, a mountain of furniture crammed in front of the kitchen, and concrete under my feet.  Oh well.  I feel accomplished.

I was going to write more, but now I'm not (profound, I know).