My week of cleaning is coming to a close. The apartment is still not where I had envisioned it at the beginning of the week, but I am at least twice as tired as I had anticipated. The good news is that the floor is no longer littered with out-of-date computer peripherals that make funny crunching sounds when stepped on in the middle of the night. And that big snow-capped mountain of dirty clothes that had taken over half of the bedroom, that's gone too. These very infrequent spells of domesticity never cease to prove that despite my claiming otherwise I am a total packrat. I mean, how many plastic snoopy figurines can one person have? And, why are they distributed into every drawer and small box in the apartment? Why has it taken me over two years to realize that the twenty Twinnings tea tins have no magic alternate use so there is no need to keep them stacked on a shelf in the kitchen? I suspect it's genetic. If I can get up in the morning, I can finish up the few remaining tasks and start fresh on making an even bigger and better mess.