Thursday, September 12, 2013

Just Don't Call Me Mrs. Clean -- I Hate Housework

   I have looked at a million crazy, smiley, I-love-to-clean posts and articles, and if you are anything like me, these articles produce only one logical reaction -- the need to shudder in horror. Of course, as a single mother, that lets out the Stepford Wife identity, but even when I did play the role of stay-at-home mom, I made it clear to everyone that I was staying home to take care of my child, not to play maid. I think people who claim that cleaning relieves stress and makes them happy are the most batshit crazy of us all. Cleaning is a surefire way to experience me in my most stressed, pissy attitude possible.
  I detest cleaning. Of course, I do clean. My apartment has no strange and unidentifiable smells. You aren't going to find pizza embedded in the carpet. The dishes will be done (God bless whoever invented the dishwasher) and there aren't new and unexplained life forms growing in the fridge. That is about the only claim I can make. There is dust because that is a never-ending battle and long ago I surrendered and admitted my defeat. Laundry is my worst nightmare, and although sometimes I try to be good and sort and wash by color and all that good shit, inevitably I revert to shoving everything into the washer in a load as big as possible so that I can be done with the stupid mess. And don't expect me to fold. Just don't even go there.

   And then there is some clutter. My apartment is NOT the sea of decay that my bedroom was when I was a teenager. As a teenager, in my room you had to dig through a foot of crap just to see the carpet, and looking back, even I don't know how I managed to tolerate that mess. I couldn't now. But that being said, my daughter's backpack is laying on the floor as we speak and I have kicked it out of my way no less than three times today. My shoes are piled in front of the door instead of on the shoe rack, and I have a stack of books and magazines on the floor next to my bed.
    No, my house could never be confused with the home of  a Mr. Clean fanatic, but really, I ask you, what child wants to grow up in a museum? My apartment may not be spotless, layered with plastic to keep dust and dirt away, but dammit, my apartment is lived in and well broken in; my apartment is a home. 

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