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ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about housework, and how I've inherited all of the love of it that my mother had to leave me, not to mention all of her skills at keeping an immaculate house. This is very sad, considering that my mother hated housework and while I was growing up our home always looked like a tornado had just passed through it.
My husband can confirm that many of the bad habits that people normally associate with males are actually represented in our house by me. I am the one who kicks off my shoes where ever I am when the urge hits me. I am the one who leaves my dirty laundry on the bathroom floor. I am the one who puts my feet on the coffee table. The list goes on.
On one occasion, Jeff cleared all of my shoes out from under the coffee table. Getting ready for work the next morning, I panicked when I realized I didn't know where any of my footwear was. My husband, as some kind of cruel joke, had hidden them all in my closet, where I would never have found them if I had not asked him. His reason was a good one, so I couldn't hold that against him too much: he wanted to vacuum the carpet and needed access to the floor under the coffee table. I am like any normal woman in that I own quite a few pairs of shoes, so when I say that there were a lot of them under there, it means there were about 10 to 15 pairs. My feet are small, so they all fit nicely.
I confess that when I have spilled something, I've had to ask Jeff where to find the vacuum cleaner. Instead of telling me, he just looked at me and smiled.
"You really don't know where it's kept, do you?"
I found the question irritating and a little embarrassing. "I wouldn't be asking you if I did."
He sighed. "I'll go get it for you."
"No, tell me where it is in case I need it again and I you aren't here." He named the closet where the needed appliance was stored, and I went off to retrieve it. As I walked away, he said, "And put it back when you're done. Don't just leave it sitting in the middle of the floor."
He knows me too well.
In my own defense, Jeff vacuums several times a week, whereas I vacuum whenever the floor looks particularly disgusting. Since I live with someone who vacuums compulsively, I almost never need to vacuum.
That Woman my father is married to now is the opposite of my mother (in more ways than one). My father's house is now as neat as a pin. When I lived there for awhile after I graduated college, I was shocked to discover that you couldn't even leave a drinking glass sitting next to the kitchen sink without her or my father putting it in the dishwasher. I was the type who used the same glass all day long, and I protested that I hadn't put the glass in the dishwasher because I wasn't finished with it.
"You can get it back out of the dishwasher if you're still using it," That Woman told me.
I couldn't, of course. Once a glass is in the dishwasher, it is tainted and can't be reused. The mere act of sitting in an otherwise empty dishwasher soils a clean drinking glass as much as rinsing it in a mud puddle would. I got a new glass out of the cupboard, instead.
Don't get me wrong: I like clean houses. I even like my house when it's clean. I wish I could afford to pay someone to clean it for me. But when it comes down to it, there are things I enjoy more than housework. Many, many things. I find it hard to concentrate on housework when there are books to be read, poems to be written, dog ears to be scratched and a one year old boy to tickle.
This is just one of the many talks that I would love to have with with my long-departed mother. I think she, of all the people who have ever lived, would understand perfectly and wouldn't pass judgment on me. Heck, she might even be a little bit proud.
My husband can confirm that many of the bad habits that people normally associate with males are actually represented in our house by me. I am the one who kicks off my shoes where ever I am when the urge hits me. I am the one who leaves my dirty laundry on the bathroom floor. I am the one who puts my feet on the coffee table. The list goes on.
On one occasion, Jeff cleared all of my shoes out from under the coffee table. Getting ready for work the next morning, I panicked when I realized I didn't know where any of my footwear was. My husband, as some kind of cruel joke, had hidden them all in my closet, where I would never have found them if I had not asked him. His reason was a good one, so I couldn't hold that against him too much: he wanted to vacuum the carpet and needed access to the floor under the coffee table. I am like any normal woman in that I own quite a few pairs of shoes, so when I say that there were a lot of them under there, it means there were about 10 to 15 pairs. My feet are small, so they all fit nicely.
I confess that when I have spilled something, I've had to ask Jeff where to find the vacuum cleaner. Instead of telling me, he just looked at me and smiled.
"You really don't know where it's kept, do you?"
I found the question irritating and a little embarrassing. "I wouldn't be asking you if I did."
He sighed. "I'll go get it for you."
"No, tell me where it is in case I need it again and I you aren't here." He named the closet where the needed appliance was stored, and I went off to retrieve it. As I walked away, he said, "And put it back when you're done. Don't just leave it sitting in the middle of the floor."
He knows me too well.
In my own defense, Jeff vacuums several times a week, whereas I vacuum whenever the floor looks particularly disgusting. Since I live with someone who vacuums compulsively, I almost never need to vacuum.
That Woman my father is married to now is the opposite of my mother (in more ways than one). My father's house is now as neat as a pin. When I lived there for awhile after I graduated college, I was shocked to discover that you couldn't even leave a drinking glass sitting next to the kitchen sink without her or my father putting it in the dishwasher. I was the type who used the same glass all day long, and I protested that I hadn't put the glass in the dishwasher because I wasn't finished with it.
"You can get it back out of the dishwasher if you're still using it," That Woman told me.
I couldn't, of course. Once a glass is in the dishwasher, it is tainted and can't be reused. The mere act of sitting in an otherwise empty dishwasher soils a clean drinking glass as much as rinsing it in a mud puddle would. I got a new glass out of the cupboard, instead.
Don't get me wrong: I like clean houses. I even like my house when it's clean. I wish I could afford to pay someone to clean it for me. But when it comes down to it, there are things I enjoy more than housework. Many, many things. I find it hard to concentrate on housework when there are books to be read, poems to be written, dog ears to be scratched and a one year old boy to tickle.
This is just one of the many talks that I would love to have with with my long-departed mother. I think she, of all the people who have ever lived, would understand perfectly and wouldn't pass judgment on me. Heck, she might even be a little bit proud.
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no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 08:09 pm (UTC)wouldn't pass judgment
Date: 2006-03-24 08:38 pm (UTC)Re: wouldn't pass judgment
Date: 2006-03-24 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 10:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 09:22 pm (UTC)And I won't bother to tell you that the secret to cleaning is to clean as you go -- i.e., if you put your shoes in the closet in the first place, you won't have to pick them up later.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 09:39 pm (UTC)The trick to mastering the trick of cleaning up as you go is to first master the trick of giving a damn. I'm still working on the whole giving a damn thing. Besides, Jeff seems to enjoy vacuuming, and I wouldn't want to take that pleasure away from him when he gets so much out of it...