This doesn't mean I won't find a drawer full of rusty razor blades or a bag of decomposing cats or something else in the corners that will make me go, "My God! Yuck! What kind of a person could possibly -- GAHHHHH!" But when that happens, I can flee downstairs. The kitchen table is clear, and I can get into the clean fridge and pour myself a glass of milk and take deep breaths. At least, that's the theory.
Unfortunately, I'm still not sure whether I'm going to find cheap mass-construction when I'm done with all this mess -- usable when cleaned, but not really very pleasant -- or whether I'm going to find amazing Arts-and-Crafts woodwork and molded ceilings. Or whether I'm going to find amazing Arts-and-Crafts woodwork that someone painted avocado green in 1976. Still, the floor plan is looking a bit promising, and I just found a cleaning solution that'll get the years of grime off the chandelier, slick as a whistle.
Last night markgritter reminded me that the books (the ones I write, he meant) are worthwhile to me for themselves, for getting them out of my system on the bad days and for doing something I love on the good days. That long-term goals for a career are a good thing, but that on a daily basis, sometimes doing what you do is its own good thing, to be appreciated.
As I keep saying, I keep him around for more than decoration.