Pig Sty

This is not a picture of my living room, but it's close. Although it's a bit cleaner now that I was surprised this morning by an inspector from the city who came into my apartment while I was sleeping. He said that my place needed to be cleaned up because blocking the sliding glass doors to the patio was a fire hazard.

So I spent a few hours, while he helped a little, clearing a path in my living room. I'm still waiting for him to come back, since he was going to provide me some tools to clean the pet stains off my carpet. Tip: don't get a dog if you have a carpeted home.

Ever since I've been on my own this has been a problem. I've mentioned before that I am lazy (I prefer the more romantic sounding "indolent"). I looked up lazy and found this from Wikipedia: "Laziness is a habit rather than a mental health issue. It may reflect a lack of self-esteem, a lack of positive recognition by others, a lack of discipline stemming from low self-confidence, or a lack of interest in the activity or belief in its efficacy. Laziness may manifest as procrastination or vacillation." That sounds right. Neither of my parents are lazy--my father is fastidious, while my mother always kept a clean house. But I've had low-esteem issues forever.

I don't like living in a pig sty--if I had the money for a maid I'd get one in a heartbeat. I just don't like cleaning, and have made an arrangement with myself to tolerate what others would not. If I went to a hotel and saw a bathtub or toilet like mine, I would shriek in horror and leave, but I've learned to live with it.

Procrastination has always been a problem with me, too. I was the kid who waited until the last minute to do homework, because I was smart enough to get away with it. I've never been well organized, relying on my memory instead of a calendar. There was a time that my books and CDs were arranged in either alphabetical order or by subject, but that's long gone.

Today I seem to have such an nonchalant attitude that an envelope or a soda can or a paper plate can fall on the floor and I do nothing about it--it just becomes part of the furniture. I do keep my body clean--I'm particular about that, and in the summer will shower twice a day. I'm just not motivated to live in clean surroundings.

I once roomed with my friend Bob, over thirty years ago, and believe it or not he was messier than I was. You could not see the floor in his bedroom. An exterminator came every once in a while and he would shake his head and say, "You guys need to get a wife." Clearly he was old-school. What I need to clean is a threat, like I got this morning.