Guilt Trip?

I'm finding that one of the best things about staying alone anywhere is the 'clean house' factor. I surprised myself to find that when I swept all the floors in this apartment, there's hardly any dirt. Not only is there a lack of dust, there's no time for things to dry out enough to make dust--enought to blow in the air. It makes for a really cool, clean humidity (that, by the way, is great for this desert-parched skin).

Other than traceable amounts of dust, lint and my hair, there was little to sweep out. After mopping, the place seems almost sterile. I mean, you wouldn't even feel guilty using this place as a makeshift operating room; that's how clean it feels.

I miss my cats.

I miss the constant fussing at them (with a heartful of love), the constant reminders that they are a part of my life. Of course, I can think of lots of reasons why I don't miss them, too, but isn't it just that way with the things you love? And it's possible that my cats have taken the places of my children somewhat. I'm willing to admit that. Maybe it's just maternal, this need for having little ones around.

On the other hand, I do also have to admit that I don't miss the constant cleaning. It's been almost like having a maid, but without having to stretch the budget.

But I still miss my cats ... there's just no accounting for irrationality, is there?