Dust-lust, hardcore homemaking and the house that blings like some gangsta beacon of cleanliness.

Hardcore homemaking at it's finest and erm, sweatiest.

I haven't posted for a week now. Shiiiit. That's like one of the worst crimes a blogger can commit, isn't it?

I keep meaning to sit down and write but I keep getting distracted by ... well, everything. Oooh, is that something shiny?

I probably wouldn't be so distracted if I weren't up the duff.

Being up the duff for me is all about cleanliness.

During the first trimester, I park my ass on the lounge and don't get back up for 12 weeks at least. This is when my house generally resembles a brothel. Everyday I would think about getting up to clean the house. Everyday the desire to sloth about would win and I would go back to dry-retching and watching "I didn't know I was pregnant" re-runs.

Weeks 12 to 18 are generally spent making up it up to the universe in the way of getting abit of order back into the house. I dust behind the TV, light incence to make the place smell purdy and use abit more vinegar on the floors just so the goddamn cleaning gods know this bitch means business.

Week 18+, I nest like a nutter. I channel Martha Fucking Stewart. No, I'm serious. In the past 4 weeks, I have scrubbed and painted walls. I have emptied entire cupboards just to refold and reorganise everything. I have sorted through my bathroom and laundry, buying up storage containers and throwing out 3 year old half emptied bottles of body wash and shaggy toothbrushes. I have scrubbed fingerprints off everything, started growing herbs and cried over crumbs being dropped on my freshly mopped floors that I now mop twice a week instead of once a month because I am now officially a nutcase. Oh, and did I mention I get a boner over bleach at the moment? It smells motherfucking cleaner than clean yo!

This Sunday just gone, I woke up from 4 hours sleep after doing a close at the pub and tottered off to our local baby markets. After an hour, I got home and dragged MC out into the garage and we spent 3 hours cleaning out the bastard. I celebrated having a clean, organised garage afterwards by weeding the garden and raking and digging out plants, only to come inside and vacuum the house, hang out some washing and cook a baked dinner. WHO FUCKING DOES THAT? You'd think that I would have slept well that night, wouldn't you? Well you would have been goddamn mistaken because I tossed and turned in that bed for hours, planning out my next cleaning shenanigans. Am I going to sort through the Boy's cupboard next or paint the rest of the house? Oh the decisions!

My dust-lust at the moment knows no bounds and you bet your sweet ass that soon enough, my house is going to be so goddamn sparkling that you will see it blinging like some gangsta beacon of cleanliness from outer space!

And while I'm hoping it settles down soon, I know deep down that shit like this is going to continue to go down until I pop. I keep having flashbacks of the morning that I woke up at 5am to vaccuum when I was like 38 weeks pregnant with the Boy, you know, in case I were to give birth and have to come home afterwards and host a big fuck off dinner party and the guests would be inspecting my floors and JUDGING ME FOR SLACKING OFF IN THE HOUSEWORK DEPARTMENT! Never mind the baby woman, the floors! Won't somebody please think of the floors?

Quite frankly, pregnancy turns me into some sort of hardcore homemaker on crack. However I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I draw the line at ironing. Fuck that shit, go iron your own damn shirt MC!