Lost and Found

I think I may have mentioned once or twice (or a hundred times) that I am not the greatest housekeeper in the world. I have no illusions about the dust bunnies that have made their home under my furniture or the spider webs that occasionally turn into magnificent mansions to which the residents regularly invite their friends and relatives. I know I won't be invaded by the Hoarders crew (at least not yet) but I will cop to a certain amount of frantic cleaning any time we host an event that would include anyone blessed with the gift of sight.

My husband, a much neater, more organized soul who has long given up on his vision of an orderly, uncluttered home similar to the one he grew up in, looks forward to any excuse to host a party. "Hey, it's Groundhog Day/Shark Week/J. Edgar Hoover's Birthday", he'll announce when he can't take it any longer, "let's invite the gang over". That's when I go into high gear, scurrying around trying to get the house to resemble something close to the one he would like to live in every day.

During this last mad frenzy I decided to go where I don't usually go; where no one around here goes - under the couch - the last resting place for many lost or forgotten objects.  In my defense, we have a family room that doesn't lend itself to moving furniture around so that heavy piece of upholstered refuge has occupied the same spot for a very long time. I might also mention that my husband, in his daily, non-party mode frustration, is often prone to slipping/shoving/kicking unwanted items in, into, or under whatever will hide them the quickest. I recently discovered one of the kid's baby toys on top of a non-visible shelf in our bathroom. Our youngest will be twenty-five in November.

Determined to re-arrange the furniture, I planted my feet and shoved the couch away from its long-standing residence against the wall. On my hands and knees, with a quick time-out for a prayer to bless me with better housekeeping skills and/or a lifetime contract with Merry Maids, I started gathering the once wanted, now forgotten bounty, That's when I realized that this treasure trove deserved a list. The Guinness people might someday be interested.

Under my sofa I found: eleven pens, 1 plastic (real would have been scary) knife, 1 cloth napkin (used to wipe one's hands before throwing it under the couch?), 1 half roll of toilet paper (I don't even want to know), 2 hair clips, 1 sock (so that's where that was hiding), 4 magazines, 3 tennis balls, 4 free weights, 1 slipper (who needs slippers until November), 1 Bears hat (probably thrown in disgust at the end of last season), 1 Happy Birthday balloon on a stick, 1 exercise band, and a half-finished crossword puzzle.

After finishing the puzzle, I put away/trashed all the other items and vacuumed. By the time our guests arrived, we had a new seating arrangement and a carpet free of dust bunnies and other unwanted visitors. Weeks later, I'm happy to say, there is still nothing residing under our couch.

Our bed? Maybe it's time for a slumber party.

Waiting for Mr. Clean

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.

Watch Out for Flying Pigs

Today, I witnessed a miracle. Nothing life shattering like water turning into wine or the Kardashian sisters joining the Peace Corps. No, this was a small miracle, one of those life affirming moments of hope that turn a good day into a great day. What was this miracle, you may ask. My daughter cleaned the bathroom.

Before you think that I've lost my mind in putting the words miracle and cleaning a bathroom in the same sentence, I have to clue you in to the fact that cleaning isn't exactly on my daughter's list of priorities. (Can't imagine where she gets that from.) Her bedroom is usually a pile of clothes and books interrupted by small swatches of carpeting and her bathroom often resembles your average forest preserve outhouse. When she was a teenager, this lack of personal hygiene could be dismissed as typical adolescent behavior. Now that she's an adult, it's a whole lot tougher to shake my head and look the other way. I've reminded, nagged and pleaded until I'm tired of hearing my own voice. In response to this verbal barrage, she usually squirts some cleaner in the toilet, swipes a rag over the counter and calls it a day. That kind of behavior would lead any parent housing her adult child to start looking for names of a good locksmith.

That's why today was so special. Just when I had come to believe that she would never step up to the plate and do the job as it should be done, I was treated to the unsolicited sight of my firstborn on her hands and knees scrubbing the outside (as well as the inside) of the toilet, wiping down the walls and scrubbing the floor. She worked tirelessly for twenty minutes, used the right cleaners and didn't complain once.

It may not have been an actual miracle but it sure felt like one.