Pheromone Girl Grows Up

I love a clean house, I hate to clean. The disparity between the two items is downright comical at times.

I remember being on my own in the world for the first time. I moved into a little apartment in town that was hardly 400 square feet and included a claw foot tub, hot water pipes everywhere due to the steam heat, and three adorable cats named Daquiri, Althea and Escher.

Dak was a bright orange, 15 pounds of pure muscle and would shed like there's no tomorrow. Thea was a seal point siamese with the attitude of cleopatra and a constant hunger for the mice that invaded my kitchen. She would not, however, eat the cockroaches, no matter how often I begged. Escher was a kitten that got into no end of trouble - frequently screeching when the heat in the steam radiators got to be too much and she didn't want to give up her cozy spot.

I worked at a job that took lots of hours - maybe 50 a week (If only I'd known that some day I'd work 70-80, I would have enjoyed this easy schedule) and I'd spend my Saturday cleaning the apartment. I didn't have a vaccuum so I'd borrow the manager's and vacuum her place as thanks. It took me all of 7 minutes to do both teeny apartments. Then, scrubbing kitchen, bathroom, wiping down the walls to try to stay ahead of the lovely orange nicotine buildup that would bleed through the walls - and be added to by Ryan - was a full afternoon's work.

We had time to goof off, too. We'd watch movies we rented - strange movies like A Clockwork Orange, Once Bitten, Superman. We called it good-bad movie night and it lasts today. We ordered pepperoni pizza from the place next door when they had a buy one get one deal going and would have 4 lovely boxes of cold, congealing, divine food that could feed us for almost a week. Winchells donuts were a staple because Ryan worked there at night, frying up the next day's breakfast for the maple bar lovers of NE Portland.

I took care of my elderly neighbor lady, Mrs. Peetes, as she recovered from a stroke. Breakfast and dinner, every day, were made for her out of foods that I couldn't imagine being able to afford. Pot roast. Meat loaf. Stuffed cabbage. Then, after not so much as tasting a bite, I'd go home to leftover Kraft dinner. At the time, it didn't bother me at all. I was content. I lived on processed food and hot tea.

I boxed a bunch of stuff this weekend. The space in which I live seems larger (amazing, since it's barely 900 square feet and full of people), there's more room to move, projects I have put off for months were attacked. After all, with people coming through my place, I have to have it at a certain level. Right?

So in cleaning, I was reminded of lazy Saturday afternoons with 3 cats rubbing against my feet, begging me to come sit with them so they could warm my lap while I read. Now, I don't have cats, but a dog and 2 kids that would love a bit of my attention. Maybe a bad movie.

I wonder, can you buy spare time at the store? I seem to continually run out of it.