Miss Wishy Washy

When I was in the first grade I played the title role in the class play, Miss Wishy Washy. I don't remember what it was about, I just remember I wore an apron and a bandanna over my head. Okay, to be honest I don't even remember that very well, I just know there is a picture at my parents' house of me dressed like that with my friend Becca standing in front of a microphone as the Narrator. I also don't even remember why I decided to tell this story, because that's all I remember and the story is over.

What I really wanted to tell you is that I have the best Grandpa ever because he just came over and helped me clean my apartment. He mopped, to be exact. Yes, I could have done it myself, but he didn't approve of my little mop so he came over with his own mop and did it for me, which was super nice of him.

Okay, this post isn't really about Grandpa mopping my floor, either. It's about how mad I am that my apartment was dirty in the first place. (Let's ignore the fact that I moved in two months ago and I'm behind on this cleaning. I worked for hours scrubbing the bathroom and most of the kitchen when I first moved in, but I didn't get around to mopping the floors. Again, not the point.) The point is that I'm angry I had to clean up years of dust and cat hair that does not belong to me. I did not let the corner behind the refrigerator look like it grew a hairy carpet all over the floor and walls. I did not leave dried cat food under the stove. I did not let dust and cat hair pile up in the old radiators. I hate cats. And I don't like cleaning, but I do it. And I wish the girl who lived here before me would stop by so I could hand her my garbage bag full of her grossness.