I Count My Lip Salves

To make tidying up more interesting this evening, I decided to count my lip salves. I didn't set out with the intention of counting anything, but after I'd tidied my bathroom shelves, it seemed the obvious thing to do.  This is because I found two tins of Vaseline lip salve, a Nivea stick and a chocolate-mint flavoured stick.  I also found a little tube of intensive lip care cream which I cannot recall buying.

After this, I wanted to assess the extent of my lip salve purchase / storage situation.

I was brought up to count my blessings, and whilst this is a commendable thing to do, it has never really cheered me up.  Once I'd decided to count my lip salves, each one I found brought me the satisfaction of rediscovery.

Emptying my coat pockets, I found a tube of strawberry scented lip gloss.  I put some on immediately.  In the pockets of my leather jacket, I found another tin of Vaseline.  It must have been 3 for 2 on Vaseline sometime last winter.

I suppose the problem with counting blessings is that it's often been other people who have told me what my blessings are, whereas really, it's a matter I need to decide for myself.

Tidying out my bags isn't usually a feature of my cleaning routine, but the bottom of my work bag proved a productive place.   I found a tin of Nivea raspberry flavoured lip cream (possibly my favourite), the stick of real beeswax balm which was a present from the USA (the most effective in my collection),  and a tub of Body Shop pineapple flavour.  Its companion (2 for £5) honey flavour, is in my drawer at work.  When I bought them, I intended to give one of them away, but it's obviously far too late for that.

I Shake Crumbs From My Keyboard

Today, I picked up my computer keyboard, turned it over, and shook.  Out fell the crumbs of lunches long forgotten, and other unidentifiable crud.  Apparently, computer keyboards can harbour more bacteria than toilet seats.

Shaking out my keyboard only occurs when I have either got stuck on a particularly difficult task, or when I am feeling intense existential angst and seek the fulfillment which comes from cleaning something.

When I'd swept up the debris, and turned the keyboard back over, it didn't look any cleaner.  

Other things I do in acts of random cleaning include washing the seals around the inside of the dishwasher and dusting the floor underneath the piano.  

There's nothing like task avoidance for getting a fairly pointless job done.

I use various implements for deeper keyboard cleaning.  I've never had the recommended can of compressed air to hand, so I improvise using pencils, uncoiled paper clips and the corners of folded paper to lever out the fluff which collects between keys.  Each little furry clump that I extract represents a moment of satisfaction.