Whoever it was that thought up the concept of housecleaning should be taken out and shot. Okay, they’re probably already dead, but still. I’m sure there was a fanatical little cavewoman with OCD who spent far too much time dusting her rocks off with a bunch of weeds. She probably also criticized her next cave neighbor for being “filthy”.
I’ve thought of calling on those cute British gals from Lifetime, but I’m afraid my house isn’t dirty enough for them. Honestly, I don’t sleep with cat poop in my bed and I doubt if they swabbed my bathroom they would find traces of plague. I may live a bit on the cluttered side, but the people those gals visit are just disgusting.
I’ve tried to pinpoint exactly what about cleaning house it is that I hate so much. Maybe it’s just the work in general. Certainly there are other things I would rather be doing. I’ve never been one to enjoy mucking about in anything nasty, which I extend to include toilets and dust bunnies.
There is of course some reward in a job well done and I do feel a certain sense of relief once things are all picked up, dishes washed and laundry put away, but it’s not as good as say, an orgasm or even chocolate.
BC (before children) I watched too many of those decorating shows on TV and read too many magazines. I began to fancy myself having a showplace for a home. Then I started finding binkies in the sofa cushions and my floors became littered with an array of children’s characters. Now if I can just get the kids to get their clothes into a hamper I feel as if I have accomplished something.
I’ve seen the cutesy little saying “Cleaning house while the kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk while it is still snowing.” This phrase was obviously coined by a mother. Honestly, I can get the dishes loaded and running and walk into my kitchen 10 minutes later and the sink is full again.
And just try to keep up with the laundry. Ha! It is impossible. I’ve quit trying. It is apparent that once a shirt is placed into a hamper it begins multiplying into an assortment of other shirts, pants etc. At our house we have what we call Mt. Washmore. Every day I run several loads through the washer and the next day the mountain is standing tall again.
So, I will never be June Cleaver or Donna Reed vacuuming in a skirt and three-inch heels. I just keep reminding myself those were television shows.