Kelly and I both have tendencies towards perfectionism. It can be a powerfully advantageous characteristic in certain circumstances. But for most aspects of life, perfectionism is harmfully inefficient and must be reigned in carefully before it becomes counterproductive.

With that in mind I will tell you the story of how I came to spend 18 minutes sweeping yesterday.

In our house, practically every weekend includes a conversation that fits the following pattern:

Kelly: "This house is a mess. Filthy! We seriously need to clean."

Rob: "Ok, well, we have some time before we have to get ready for <insert weekend event here>; what can I get started on?"

Kelly: "Ugh, it's just so overwhelming! That's not enough time to get anything done. I guess we'll just have to put off the cleaning until next weekend."

As the weeks go by the dramatic urgency increases but the gist of the conversation remains the same.

So yesterday I just picked up a broom and started to sweep. I didn't ask first. Lord knows I didn't start in the right room (you see, there is a plan, an intricate sequenced method, to the house cleaning, and I am not privy to this information). Two minutes and halfway into the first room, I was rudely interrupted.

"What are you doing?" Her tone held both disbelief and consternation.

"Just sweeping up a little". Defensive, but it came across as sheepish.

"You're just making it worse. You go too fast and send dust everywhere." Fake coughing and hand waving to illustrate her point. "Did you do the bedroom already? You can't just start in the living room! Did you take that rug outside and shake it? Did you get underneath the sofa? Did you vacuum the sofa first?!?" Incredulous now. Apparently this was worse than buying eggs without checking for cracked ones first.

"No, I didn't." One defiant answer for all those questions. "I'm just sweeping the dirt that I see."

A snort of disgust. "Well you don't have time to finish anyway. We have to leave in an hour, and I happen to know that it takes an hour and a half to sweep this house."

"No, it takes an hour and a half for you to sweep the house. But I can do it five times faster - in 18 minutes. See, your version of sweeping gets, let's say, 92% of the floor dirt. In 90 minutes. My 18-minute sweep is admittedly not nearly so effective, but I can get 71% (+/- 10%) of the floor dirt in one fifth the time. And the dirt that I get is the most obvious, most visible dirt. The difference between your 92% and my 71% is the less noticeable dirt - the cat hair underneath the sofa, for example."

I'm on a roll now. "There's no question that the 90-minute sweep is superior in quality to the 18-minute sweep. But my sweep has one huge advantage - it only takes 18 minutes. And because of that, it gets done. And in 16 minutes when I'm finished, you can't say you would rather have 0% of the dirt swept up than 71%. The 18-minute sweep is good, not perfect, but you can't let the perfect be the enemy of the good."

I may have paraphrased a little, here and there, but that's pretty much how it went. The 18-minute sweep has now been installed as a weekly routine in our household, while the 90-minute sweep has been relegated to once every two months or so. And Kelly reluctantly agreed to all of my logic, although from now on I do have to start in the right room.

I invited Rob to start coming to yoga with me, and much to my delight he agreed. Although, I suspect his decision was mostly influenced by the instructor. Every time I come home from yoga and he asks me how it was, I answer, "My god, she is beautiful!" and then I go into great detail about her legs or her abs or whichever body part I was lucky enough to get a glimpse of that class. And then I always say, "I just wish you could see her downward dog. Because dude, you have no idea."

So I think Rob finally decided that he did, indeed, want to see her downward dog. Which, honestly, is fine by me. I think everyone should see her downward dog. I look at her downward dog every chance I get. I sometimes deny my own downward dog just so I can fully enjoy hers.

Today was the first class that Rob attended, and by some aligning of the stars we were the only ones there. She had a full class signed up, but no one showed but us. And can I just say? It was totally hot.

First she said in a low soft voice, "Let me just turn on some music for us and dim the lights." And then, "Okay, let's close our eyes. Just relax. I want you to feel this moment." And then a little later, "We'll pace ourselves so no one's walking funny tomorrow."

Soon we were breathing heavily. She stripped off a layer. I stripped off a layer. We were twisting our bodies every which way. She encouraged us to spread wider and go deeper. She told us how good we looked and how she'd like to take a photo. Then she was touching Rob, moving his hips into alignment. And then she got into her favorite position - on her back with her feet in the air. After it was all over, we lay there, our bodies completely spent.

Like I said, it was totally hot.

Last week I got a package from LadyBug which contained the best-smelling bath products ever made in the history of the world. No, really. The bath scrub and gel are made by Snapple, and they smell so juicy! My mouth waters every time I use them. You people have no idea. I wish I could put a scratch-and-sniff sticker on my blog.

And so now I find myself looking for any reason at all to shower. Things that ordinarily would warrant a simple hand wash are now excuses to take a shower. Touched raw meat? Time to shower! Changed the litter box? Definitely need a shower! Swept the kitchen floor? SHOWER! In fact, after peeing I just hop right in the shower. Even when there really isn't time enough to shower, I squeeze in a quickie. I have never been so clean in my life.

I would probably never leave the shower, ever again, except that LB also sent me some Brazilian Nut Body Butter. And slathering that stuff all over myself is sufficient reason to step out of the shower. Because that stuff? Is divine. It's so creamy and smells so hazelnutty. The first time I used it, I might maybe have dipped my finger in and tasted it. I'm not saying that I did, just that I might have.

That same evening Rob and I went out to dinner before our ballroom dancing class, and as we were sitting there waiting for our food to come, I lifted my arm (which had been coated in Brazilian Nut Body Butter) to my nose and took a long sniff. He looked at me like I was odd (?!) and then gave the Please don't embarrass me in public look. But the thing is, I can't help myself! With the sniffing, I mean. (And, fine, also with the embarrassing him in public.)

Then, when I thought he wasn't looking, I licked my arm.

"What are you doing?!" Rob exclaimed.

"Um, nothing. Okay, fine. [LadyBug] sent me this body butter that is to die for and I just keep wanting to eat it. Seriously, it's to die for." And then I reached my arm across the table and said, "Here, you wanna lick?"

He declined, rather snootily, which is really a shame. Because, you know, if he had licked my arm, it would have been a good excuse to shower.

R: Hey, since you're sitting at the computer, will you type an email for me really quick if I tell you what to say?

K: Okay. Ooh, it'll be like in the olden days! You know, I'll be your...your...dictator!

Rob furrows his brow.

K: That's not what it's called, is it? But, heh, true nonetheless.

R: Tell me about it.

K: So what is the person who's taking dictation called? Ooh! Dictaker?

Rob's eyes widen.

K: What? OH. Heh, I said dick-taker. Awesome.

Okay, so the music at Curves leaves much to be desired. Seriously, the songs they play are the WORST POSSIBLE dance mixes, ever. No, they're not even dance mixes. They're workout mixes. With a dance mix, the song is still remotely recognizable. With workout mixes, there's just a steady, heavy bass to pump weights to, the all-too-often "Whooaaa, whooooa!" wailing of a background singer, and then the occasional snippet of a lyric that sounds vaguely familiar and is enough to make one perk one's ear and question, "Did they just say 'Like a virgin'? This is a Madonna cover?!"

So, really really bad music. But I've come to accept it, and by accept it I mean tune it out.

BUT. On Friday when I arrived at Curves the song playing over the speakers permeated my brain because while it was indeed a workout mix, it was slightly different. Different enough to get my attention. It was...are you ready for this?...."How Great Thou Art." HOW GREAT THOU ART, people! You know, THE HYMN!!! "Then sings my soul, my savior god to thee / How great thou art, how great thou art!" AT CURVES! AS A WORKOUT MIX!!! I am not EVEN shitting you. Seriously, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

I was completely incredulous. Like, more incredulous than I've ever been in my entire life. I guess, living in Redneck Valley, I should no longer be surprised when people try to push religion onto other people, but every time I encounter something like this I am, indeed, surprised. And aghast. I mean, HOW GREAT THOU ART?! Really? But oh, it didn't stop there. They played workout mix hymns The Entire Time I was there. The Entire Time. It was nothing short of subliminal messaging; I can't help but think they were hoping that after doing bicep curls and squats to hyped up hymns we would all walk out as newly indoctrinated (and by indoctrinated I mean brainwashed) Born-agains chanting "Jesus loves you and your flabby abs, too!"

I was completely offended by the audacity of playing religious songs in a PUBLIC place, but I was also completely peeved because the goddamn songs were absolutely impossible to workout to. How the fuck am I supposed to get my workout groove going to "This is My Story, This is My Song"?! Even with the pounding bass and the "Whooaaaa, whoooaaa!" and whatever the fuck the electric keyboard was trying to pull off, it was still "This is My Story, This is My Song"!! As in, a HYMN! As in, SLOOOOW!!! Granted, "Holy, Holy, Holy" stepped it up a notch, but it was a very tiny notch.

Needless to say the spirit did not move me.

been reading: Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld

I picked up Prep because I thought it was going to be like Mean Girls. And because it had a cute cover. (Yes, in fact, I do judge books by their covers.) It turned out to be not at all what I expected, which is not to say I didn't like it. It's about the angst of adolescence and it certainly addresses the issue of belonging that makes high school so high school. But the novel is not nearly as carefree as its cover would suggest. It addresses class, race, and gender issues, and ultimately it is about one girl's path of self-discovery which happens to begin during the years she spends at a prep school far from home.

Perhaps what I loved most about the book is also what made it completely not what I expected: the protagonist. Lee narrates the novel as a twenty-something, looking back on her teenage years, and so her perspective is more mature, more critical, and more philosophical than if she were relaying the experience as it was happening. And perhaps for this reason, I was able to relate to her better than I would have had she been telling the story as a 16 year-old. Lee is intelligent and achingly self-aware, even in adolescence, and the complexity of her character is what takes this novel way beyond the (albeit sometimes dark) frivolity of Mean Girls.

Please note that these items should be read followed with "...in my underwear" because really, what's the joy of a day off if you can't spend it in your underwear? Am I right? (I'm talking tshirt and boyshort undies here, folks, not push-up bra and thong. This is not the Playboy mansion.)

• Reading while drinking coffee and snuggling with Bridget.
• Yoga.
• Eating bacon.
• Laundry.
• Painting toenails.
• Blogging.

Please note that at this point the "...in my underwear" should no longer be added. Although, please also note that I would totally do these things in my underwear if such a thing were socially permissible.

• Taking cats to vet for vaccines. (Typically this is where Target! would be, but as a mother I sometimes have to make sacrifices.)
• Working out with Mom.

Please note that aforementioned "...in my underwear" does, once again, apply to the following items.

• Playing with D-Fiddy. (Please note that while this may be done with me in my underwear, the photos are not OF me in my underwear, which is not to say I wouldn't consider taking photos OF me in my underwear and sending them to a certain sexy geek-genius in preparation for future evening plans (see below); however, ain't NO WAY I'm emailing such a photo since the universe would surely find some way to humiliate me.)
• Making nice dinner, one with actual food theme (other than usual theme of wine, that is), one that involves several dishes and real recipes, one that would never normally get made during the week because with work there's no time.
• Welcoming geek-genius home with a hug and a kiss and the "Please let me be a stay-at-home!" pleading that comes standard with any day off.

Please note that the following items should not be appended with "...in my underwear" for obvious, and very different, reasons.

• Having dinner with geek-genius. (Wearing only one's underwear at the table is definitely bad manners. Duh.)
• "Networking" with the geek-genius, if you know what I'm sayin'. (Wearing one's underwear (for long, anyway) is not only bad manners but poor form as well. Duh.)

Indeed, I think the presidents would be pleased.