Long story short: a bad patch of depression, general life fuckery, awesome friends, a new living situation.
My current apartment went on the market yesterday. This morning, I got a call from the apartment manager asking if someone could come see it today at noon; it was 10 AM and I leave for work at noon. Automatic reaction was “no way,” but while I was on the phone, I looked around. I’ve been doing UfYH for a while now, and it shows. So, I said “sure, come on over - I won’t be here but just mind the cats.”
Two 20/10s later (and yes, I took the breaks), I’m done. The bed is made, the floors are steam mopped, the cat boxes are clean, the closet door is open, and the bathroom sparkles as much as a bathroom in a 1920s house can sparkle. There are wet dishes in the drainer, but that’s OK.
Keeping house is like writing, for me. A bit each day adds up over time. It’s self-care at a level only slightly above food and water; shelter, yes, but one full of welcome and comfort. When I don’t care for my home, it’s a red flag that I’m not taking care of myself in other fundamental ways. I hope the potential renter likes what she sees, but right now I’m delighted that *I* like what I see. It’s a nice indicator that things are looking up.