I have never made a secret of my aversion to housework. I've always admitted that to call this place a pigsty is an insult to pigs everywhere.

That said, there are two brief times a year that I'm subject to demonic possession and my whole world is set on its ear.

Yep, come spring and come fall, Donna Reed takes over my body for a few days AND I DO HOUSEWORK OF MY OWN FREE WILL.

If you think YOU'RE creeped out, imagine how *I* feel, eh.

This morning I woke up and almost immediately began channeling Donna. Out came the bucket, the Mr. Clean, the yellow rubber gloves and before I knew it I was washing the log walls in the kitchen. Cupboards followed shortly and even the floor felt the mop glide over it.

If you think YOU'RE creeped out, imagine how *I* feel, eh.

Six hours after this unholy possession began, at exactly 3:42:25, I set down my mop and declared the kitchen clean. Well, it's not exactly clean because the windows are still covered with ladybug poop, but there's no point in washing them until spring comes and the ladybugs leave the building.

Oh yeah, other diarists PRETEND they are crappy housekeepers, but can THEY flaunt bug poop coated windows? Can they? Huh? HUH?

Exactly.

Oh, and the fridge is still bubbling away like something from the Sorcerer's Apprentice, but hey, it's the site of the Canadian Biological Warfare Research Facility, so I can't clean it out until I get the go ahead from the government.

Ooops. I may have breached national security by speaking about my fridge, eh.

Forget you read that.

So yeah, like I said, at 3:42:25 I set down my cloth and declared the kitchen clean. At 3:42:31 my cat Zoe came downstairs, sniffed the air trying to identify the unusual odour (which would be the Mr. Clean of course) and plopped herself down in a small band of sunlight on the kitchen floor.

The cat did this so I would get the full effect of what she was about to do.

This would be the part where we cue the Vangelis music from Chariots of Fire and drop the action down to slow motion.

The cat made sure I was watching her and then she began to lift her back leg up towards her ear. Too late, I realized she was about to scratch and I tried to get to her in time, but it was as if I was running through molasses.

In the meantime, the cat's claws made contact and she released a torrent of cat fur and icky kitty dandruff which floated gaily in the sunlight before it dispersed and, with a mathematical precision seldom seen outside of a laboratory, managed to completely coat the kitchen.

Her mission accomplished, the cat stretched, wandered to her bowl to nibble daintily on some cat chow and then went back upstairs to my bed so she could continue racking up that 21.75 hours of daily sleep she so desperately requires.

Time spent cleaning kitchen: six hours.

Time kitchen stayed clean: 6.31 seconds.