Day to day domesticities are not my strong suit.
There is nothing about a pile of clothes in need of laundering or a toilet that needs the poop circles scrubbed away that makes me want to run home after dropping my son off to school and get down and dirty with cleaning chemicals.
I’m OK with living in a little clutter. It’s easy for me to ignore, especially when I’m engrossed in a little Twitter conversation or lost in a character development for a short story.
I’ve always been a natural disaster.
Growing up, my bedroom was the cause of many arguments. Inevitably, if I wanted to be able to go out on a Saturday night, I’d have to “clean” my room. And by “clean”, I mean shoving things under my bed or stuff tightly into my closet.
As long as there was nothing noticeable on the floor, I was good to go.
When I went off to college, I was the bane of my roommates existence. Kind of. I was fun to be around though so I think it made up for my less than neat ways.
Then, I moved into my big girl apartment.
I haven’t spoken much with my ex-roommate since I moved out. It’s a shame, she was a good friend.
And OY, you should have seen the house I lived in with my first husband. Well, it didn’t help that he wasn’t neat either. Good thing I had a cleaning lady twice a week because otherwise we would have been lost in clutter, never to been heard or seen from again.
I haven’t changed my stripes.
I try. Really hard. To fight the stripes though.
The main floor of my forever house (I plan on being buried under the pool in my backyard), I try to keep picked up. To the best of my ability.
My bedroom? It’s like my childhood bedroom revisited minus the parents threatening to not let me go out on a Saturday night.
As badly as I want it to be a romantic getaway, it’s more like um…camping on top of wreckage from a natural disaster.
Hurricane Melissa struck.
So anyways, it’s pissing my husband off.
He wants a neat house, of all crazy things to wish for. Humph.
I’ve been trying to explain to him that there are other “domestic things” I do way better than dusting.
But no. He wants to come home to a neat house with laundry folded and put away. He wants to come home to the scent of dinner cooking and a freshly showered and perfumed wife.
I’m all like, what year do you think this is? 1950? Sheesh.
You’re lucky if you come home and the laundry is done and piled up on the dining room table. You’re lucky if you come home to a house that doesn’t smell like dog shit.
That’s what you’re lucky to get.
So anyways, rebelling against my DNA, I tidied up a bit yesterday.
It took me all day.
No, seriously. It did. Between the computer checking and the dry heaving as I wiped down a toilet, it was an all day project.
For the main floor.
Someone save me, I don’t think I can do this again today to the bedroom.
Actually, I think I won’t.
Dontchya think that, with 14 big and capable hands in this house that team work would fall into play?
I’m a stay at home mom. And the only thing I enjoy about that is the mom part.
Now, if you don’t mind, my ADD and I are off to go clean my bedroom, if I don’t get distracted by something else as I’m climbing the stairs, like, for example…the front door and my car in the driveway.
Yeah, me and housewife type work…
Not a match.
I’d rather be getting a manicure and going for sushi with a friend.
Besides, it’s not the 50’s anymore. Equal rights means that the man of the house can do more of the cleaning.