Of her love

My mom arrives tomorrow. I bought her a plane ticket for her birthday, a olive branch to perhaps mend broken ties with her. We'll see how it goes.

To prepare, I've been cleaning and completing a list of projects that I've want to start and finish for some time. Nothing like a deadline to get you motivated.

And nothing like stress to get your house clean... when I'm stressed, I clean. And cleaning is what I've been doing. I fucking shampooed carpets today. I organized my files, moved furniture, refinished and painted furniture... I even vacuumed the feather duster.

I invaded the closet to measure the distance between each hanger-- all shirts alined, organized by color, and my shoes lined like militants prepared for battle.  I wish I had more feet so I could wear them all!

Our little pantry, the refrigerator--the labels face forward, alphabetically (though I switched back from size of container).  I ironed my jeans and shorts before putting them back in my drawers.  My underwear all neatly folded, stacked and next to my rows of socks packed tight like peas in ponds.  She'll be in those drawers if I leave her along.  I want her to see that I'm worthy of her love.

Who does these things?

Yes, stressed. I have no idea what this week will bring. I'm not sure how my mom will look. I'm not sure what words might be minced. I'm not positive I won't put her back on a plane the moment she arrives.