My mom has always been a phenomenal housekeeper. Despite the fact that she had a dog running around the house, she managed to have floors that needed no five-second rule, couch cushions that yielded nothing except an occasional quarter and counters untouched by greasy residue. I’d give anything to say that I’m swimming in her bacteria-free gene pool but that would be a lie. I have inherited a lot of wonderful traits from my mother, but her artistry with a scrub brush sure as hell isn’t one of them.
I wish I could come up with a legitimate excuse for the state of my house, something like a forty hour work week or a broken vacuum. Anything would sound a whole lot better than admitting that I just hate to clean. It’s so boring; it’s so repetitive; it’s so endless. And there are soooo many more fun things to do.
Don’t get me wrong, I love having a clean house. I just don’t want to be the one cleaning it. And for awhile I wasn’t. I had the pleasure of getting my house cleaned from top to bottom every other week and it was heaven. Except for the two hours of pre-cleaning that I did before they got there (c’mon, they couldn’t see the house like that), my participation was confined to opening the door and writing a check. I would have gladly done that forever.
But since my husband vetoed the idea of strangers traipsing through our belongings, it’s all been up to me. Now I do anything I can to avoid the inevitable. I keep the lights low. I don’t wear my glasses and I buy any product that advertises its ability to make the process easier – cleaning wipes, dusters on a telescopic handle and shower sprays that swear a few spritzes are all you need to keep your shower clean.
And I’m still waiting for that bald guy with the earring to show up on my doorstep. If he does, I don’t care what my husband says, I’m letting him in.
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