Will someone please come clean my house?

I'm not good at cleaning. I never have been. My idea of "cleaning" is more like "rearranging". Let's take this pile of crap and move it over here for a while. Voila! Clean!

The one and only cleaning activity I do faithfully every week is sweeping my house from top to bottom. And if I didn't live in a 1200 sq. ft. home with 4 pets and all hardwood floors? That wouldn't happen, either.

I really either need to beg, bribe, or pay someone to come clean my house though. It's getting ridiculous. I was getting ready for work this morning and bent down to get my shoe when I noticed the piles and piles of hair that have accumulated under the bed. (Enough that I could make a voodoo hair doll if I wanted.) When I was getting out of the shower, I first noticed that the little ledge of the stand up shower is getting icky. And then I saw that the bathroom door has dust on it. My door. Is dusty. Did you know doors needed to be dusted? I didn't.

It's not like I have some deep seeded desire to live in filth. I really don't. I constantly chastise my boyfriend for not keeping his "man cave" clean enough. The rest of the house is pristine in comparison. But still, my place is a mess.

I need a maid.

Seven cavities?

I'm all about the numbers lately. I bitched about losing 2 pounds, now I'm bitching about having 7 cavities. That's right. SEVEN. Technically, 3 of them are between teeth, so they should only count as 3. But if you want to count by teeth (which is how the dentist is charging me), it's 7.

When the dentist told me to stay away from full sugar soda and hard candy, it was hard to not laugh. I don't touch regular sodas, and haven't since high school. For those not keeping track, that was over 10 years ago. And hard candy? Meh. I'm a chocolate kind of girl. (I may or may not have indulged in a Diet Coke and Caramelo after the dentist.)

Seven freakin' cavities. Two freakin' pounds. Good lord, 2010, you aren't making the best impression so far.