So it has come to this...

Another alternate title that would be just lovely and so apropos is I have issues.

Let me preface this post with a little tidbit:

When I was about 7 years old, I got my first job. A couple of ladies in our church hired my sister and me to come and clean their houses. We were paid $1 an hour, and I proudly hoarded every penny I made. Looking back, I don't know exactly how good of a job we did, but we certainly worked hard - scrubbing big kitchen floors on hands and knees, cleaning showers and bathrooms, the whole shebang. My mama had taught us how to work.

I remember after working for one year, my sister and I put our heads together and decided we were worth more than just a dollar an hour. Did we dare ask for a raise? The thought of such a confrontation made me shudder even back then. I wasn't brave enough, but my sister, far more fearless than I, marched up and told them that we thought we needed a fifty cent raise.

The ladies laughed, and then agreed. We got the raise.

Fast-forward 7 or 8 years, and now we lived in Indiana. We decided to start up another cleaning business, and somehow managed to land a job cleaning a house up in the higher-end area of Indianapolis. And when I say house, I mean a 36-room mansion that had 2 people rattling around in it.

Obviously, this house didn't get very dirty on a day to day basis, yet we were hired to go three days a week. The only time that I remember seeing it dirty was when the owners' grown son would come to visit and bring two huge stinkin' dogs with him, black-haired beasts who shook themselves violently and shed over our freshly scrubbed floors.

We were not fond of visits from the son.

Every week, we were asked to clean out the refrigerator. I don't mean just casually swab all the surfaces whereupon nothing was resting, I mean take-every-single-item-out kind of cleaning. It seemed like a colossal waste of time to me, and I remember being particularly bugged by the fact that she had enough drinks in there to stock a restaurant. Cans and cans of soda and juice, water and milk. And nectar. I clearly remember nectar. All of which had a precise placement in the refrigerator, and boy, would we hear about it if we didn't get it all put back just so.

So all of that to tell you this:

I still hate cleaning out my refrigerator.

Of course, when the forgotten bag of celery in the deep dark corner of the drawer starts to putrefy and ooze yellow juice everywhere, or when I grab one too many eggs and one flies out of my hand and crash-lands inside one of the door shelves (yep, happened to me just tonight), do I take it out and clean it? Of course. But as far as removing every single item out of the fridge and washing it top to bottom?

I haven't done it in....are you ready for this?

An entire year.

I know. Gulp. Gasp.

Almost daily I think, "Hmmm, I really need to clean out this mess. No, really, I do. No more excuses." And then I quickly shut the door and conveniently think about something else.

But now I cannot stand it any longer, which is why I am shaming myself into revealing this dirty little secret.

So, a deadline is what I need. I am giving myself one week. One week from today, and I declare that my refrigerator shall be sparkling clean. One week seems like ample time, don't you think? Probably too much time, when you figure I can just get in there and get 'er done in about an hour. But given my past track record, I need to allow for some leeway here.

Told you. I have issues.

Care to make me feel better and tell me what one thing you absolutely despise doing?