I should note that it took me three tries to write that title - as I have had a wee bit to drink the evening, and my fingers were convinced that the word was Cowbebs. Which, in the grand scheme, is a great word, and I might start using it.

Anyhoo - I spent a good portion of the day sorting through my closet and bedroom, trying to find homes for much of the clutter that has taken up tenacious residence on every flat surface. This is aggressive clutter, with an ogre-like stance. It did not want to go quietly.

Unlike Mir, whose hot new glasses spurred her on in a marathon cleaning session of her own, my own motivations for cleaning were murky. Sure, it had to be done. I shouldn't have let the clutter set up outposts and stockpile weapons. As I sipped my cup of coffee this morning, I mentally prepared myself for the battle.

Ugly pants? Check. Ponytail? Check. Garbage bags? Check. Good music? Check. I reached for the first basket of clutter and was dropped to my knees by a stack of baby photos of my son. So cute. Must look fondly at baby boy. I set aside the stack, and dove back in. Midway through the first hour, I had the makings of a season-ending headache, but I soldiered on. I could take one for the team. They were counting on me! I made a fair dent, swallowed a couple of Advil tablets and headed back in.

Ignoring the taunts from the laundry basket full of thirty pairs of kid shoes, none of which fit any of my children, I turn back to the stack of recipes that I had pulled out of their respective cookbooks to do what? Why did I take them out? Do I even have this book anymore? Ooh! Baked Oatmeal.

Full stop. Must make Baked Oatmeal. I turned my back on the clutter, knowing that it would be pawing through the playbook and ready to wipe the floor with me when I got back. As I slid the pan into the oven, I felt a huge twinge in my back, and a complimentary throb in my temple. I chugged a big glass of water and sprawled on the chaise in the living room, wrist over my eyes.

My husband poked his head in the door and asked "You okay?"

"No, I'm Headache Girl. And my back hurts."

"Oh. Hmm. Okay." He disappeared into the kitchen.

It dawned on me, just that moment, that whenever we plan a big "catching up" day, I end up with a raging headache, or some other malaise overtakes me, leaving me pissy and broken.

"Babe! I think I have an anti-housework gene!" I hollered into the kitchen. "I get sick headaches every time I try too hard!"

"It's psychosomatic, but whatever," he offers. "Could be all the dust you're kicking up..."

"Yeah, yeah." I went back in, armed with my ENJO dust glove. Using my gigantic brain, I decided to tie a red bandana over my nose and mouth to help filter out dust. Then I came upon the rest of the costume, and promptly donned the kid-sized black felt cowboy hat and "Sheriff" star.

A few minutes were spent swaggering around the room, warning the clutter that "This here house ain't big enough for the both of us" and "Best be outta here by sundown" with fits of giggles and pretend quickest-draw-in-the-west finger-pointing action. Then I stood in the bathroom and practiced lines from "The Quick and The Dead" for a few more minutes. That is some funny, funny stuff.

The hat started to itch a bit and the handkerchief seemed like a stupid idea after all, so I turned on Bollywood Flashback Part II and had myself a funky old time moving stacks of things to new locations.

All told, I carried out a foot high stack of catalogs and other mysteriously kept junkmail, several large bags of trash and a couple more of items for charity. I will be back at it tomorrow - fortified with Baked Oatmeal and strong coffee.