Racing the Clock

I hate cleaning.  In fact, I hate any exercise that has to be done over and over but doesn't create progress.  Maintenance.  Yechhh. 

Nevertheless, a certain quality of life has to be maintained... I can get by for months tending to dishes, garbage, and very little else, but people do come over to my house for work.  So let's call today triage-plus, where I'll go the extra mile (ok, the extra 500 yards, then) to make my apartment comfortable. 

I will make it a game, Mary Poppins-style, and since I can't have a spoonful of sugar, I'll make up a game called Racing the Playlist.

The PLAYLIST: Right as Rain by Adele, Raise Your Glass by Pink, No Sleep Til Brooklyn by the Beastie Boys
10 minutes, 46 seconds

The WINNER: the Playlist. 
At least I finished scrubbing the toilet.

The 4-day Pile o' Dishes
This one will be a project, so I give myself 28:01 worth of Set Fire to the Rain (Adele), F**k You (Cee Lo Green), Blue Suede Shoes (Elvis), Bad Love - yikes, 28 minutes worth of bad love would not be nice - (Clapton), 1 2 3 4 (Feist), Novocaine/She's a Rebel (Green Day), and Maneater (Hall & Oates).

This room harbors a 4-day mountain of dirty dishes (as in, it would take four days to hike to the top), an archaeologically-interesting fridge, and various other yet-to-be-discovered kitchen detritus.  Triage indeed.  Do I treat the dishes that are about to give me a stroke, the pile of mail that is bleeding out through the stomach, or the gangrenous fridge? 

The WINNER: draw.
I was just dumping the last pile of floor dust into the garbage as Maneater repeated and faded out.  It was a good stopping point.  The gangrenous fridge will have to wait.

So now we're down to the rooms that don't get smelly.
10 minutes is it for now.  I refuse to do any more. 

All I Wanna Do is Make Love to You (Heart), Sex Machine (James Brown), Wave of Mutilation (the Pixies).  10:01.

...Um, please don't read too much Freudian stuff into that playlist. 

The WINNER: the Playlist. 

Much of my living room cleaning involved throwing handbags of various sizes into my bedroom, where I will now put them in a pile and deal with the more urgent piles of dirty laundry.  Again, 10 minutes.  But let's pick songs whose titles hint a little less at S&M, shall we?

Roxanne (the Police) and Love For Sale (Ella Fitzgerald).  Guess I'll exchange S&M for prostitution and try to get the thing over with in 9 minutes, 7 seconds. 

The WINNER: me!
I didn't make my bed, but that seems a fruitless exercise for a time-poor single lady, and I finished ten seconds before Ella was done mournfully plying her wares on the 9th scale degree. 

End note to belabor my point about pointlessness, and salute all the people in the world who do this FOR OTHER PEOPLE WITHOUT PAY (moms etc. - belated thanks, mom): when I cleaned out my bag from yesterday, I found my dirty lunch dishes.  Dammit!!! I HATE CLEANING!!!!!