I’d like to be a clean freak, you know. I’d like to have one of those houses where everything has a sparkly plastic box that probably gets wiped once a week and that contain all the essential things a household needs, and every essential thing a household needs would have a sparkly plastic box. I’d have one for my filing, and for my paperwork, which would always be away neatly and on time, and never double-handled, because I would know that double-handling is always a waste of time.
I’d have routines. I’d know exactly when I got up in the morning that I would put away the clean dishes from the dishwasher, because it had definitely and always been put on the night before. I’d open pristine cupboards and neatly place my bowls inside, leaving one out, of course, for my breakfast. I’d know what day I’d be ironing, and I’d do it like Sonnie’s mum who seems to hover the thing over the clothes for the splittest of seconds before she picks up shirts and hankies in their newly-perfected state (although I am suspecting she is, after all, a fairy of some description – possibly an ironing one). I’d sympathise with my friends whose houses lacked sparkle and their constant bemoaning of the difficulties; I’d sympathise but deep down I really wouldn’t understand, and after they left I’d wash their cup and saucer and wipe the bench down and put the biscuits back in the box and shake my head at them quietly and wonder how hard it could be.
I’d like to be a clean freak. I’d never have such an explosion of cobwebs that the ceiling looked like a small trapeze for a fly circus, and there’d be no flies to use it anyway, and I’d be the original No Flies On Me (as my mother always said) woman. I’d never look at skirting boards so dusty it looked like they’d been abandoned for a year in the fallout of an ash cloud, and, even if they had been, I’d never EVER resort to buying stupidly expensive surface wipes that look like something you’d prefer to use on a baby’s bottom, because not only would I know that a cloth and some elbow grease would do the job equally well, I would have done it already yesterday.
I’d like to be clean freak. I tried to do it, yesterday, and realized once again what I realize every time I attempt such an enormous paradigm shift: that between the scrubbing and the decision to write some kind of weekly flow chart that tells me in detail when exactly I should do these things, I realized that my body was on auto-pilot again, and the thinking-and-feeling part of my mind has crawled away on a soft cushion somewhere in the cobwebs and is lost, again, in story.
I would like to be a clean freak and hire someone else to do the cleaning for me. I would sit around the house and write, eat, play games, watch tv, work out, go away on vacations, etc…and would occasioanally look around my home and say it’s so spotless and clean….and say to myself that so and so I hired does a really good job at cleaning my house…I gotta give them a raise…:).
Yes, yes and YES! Now we all need to make potloads of money being writers so we can afford to hire these people. Yes. This works for me!
Messy writers need to be a united front on this. I’m with you, my friend. 🙂
The other obstacle to wanting to be a clean freak, which quite frankly, I actually think I am, is the bunch of NON clean freaks I live with. So, in the end, there is no point in even trying, because they don’t understand or appreciate the effort it takes, walking through the house with muddy shoes, or dumping their rubbish on my tidy floor, or spilling cordial on my nice clean bench, leaving clothes and towels strewn across the polished tiles – so I could go on. This, I think, is the definition of frustration! 🙂
True, true. And granted, when my kids aren’t here (ummm…when does that ever happen?My youngest hasn’t started school yet) the house STAYS CLEAN.
I wouldn’t trade them for the world, but I might need to get someone in to train them a little better.