All I want for Christmas is a bunny suit

Sometimes I get the overpowering urge to clean everything in the apartment, a memetic trait I inherited from my mother. I jokingly refer to it as "vacuuming for fun," which is not so very far from the truth. It's reassuring to have things clean and in order, and even if there are other things - surfing the internets, reading, smothering my cat with affection - that are more overtly enjoyable, I find myself in spare moments armed with sponges and spray bottles, ready to do battle with the bathroom sink.

This usually coincides with a burst of unexpected energy; today, for instance, I had a cup of tea, which still hasn't quite worn off. (I'm extremely sensitive to caffeine.) I got home, fed the cat, emptied out the refrigerator, and started scrubbing. I then moved on to the kitchen counter, home of the microwave and the seedy, crumby residents of its underbelly. Not bad for an evening usually spent playing Puzzle Pirates. That done, I ventured into terra incognita: the top of the refrigerator.

The fridge being taller than I am, it rarely occurs to me to use it as anything but a place to store my cereal boxes, which don't fit in the cabinets. To my horror, I discovered a thick layer of grime coating its surface, the inevitable byproduct of life in Los Angeles: anything near an open window, or stored on a patio, is covered with the work of Jack Smog. (He also does lungs.) The effect lessens with proximity to the ocean, but it's still enough to make you consider moving someplace with better air quality. Like a cleanroom.

Suppressing the urge to dry heave at the three years' worth of accumulated sludge, I hopped off the chair I'd been standing on and ran to the sink to wash my hands and regroup. It took me a couple of hours to work up the nerve to climb back up, but I finally managed to get the top of the fridge to look like its regularly textured self. 

Lessons re-learned: 1) Just because I can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't need to be cleaned; 2) Los Angeles air is filthy, and so, in all likelihood, are my lungs.