Tag Archives: cleaning sucks

Confessions of a Slob

I have a confession to make.  I am a slob.  A pig.  I really, really am.

When you come into my home and I say to you, “excuse my dirty house.” I’m not lying. I’m not saying that to fish for compliments. It is dirty. Well, to the naked eye, it may not appear to be. But people, I promise you if you get too close, you will see what I’m talking about.

If you’ve been to my house, you have said, “Mo, your house is so clean all the time.” No. No, it’s not. Do not come over here with your white glove because you will be sorely disappointed. Also, you better call first and not do one of those “I was in the area” kind of things because you will totally catch me and feel like our friendship has been a complete sham.

I had a conversation with a friend recently. We were talking about cleaning and how much we hate it. I commented to her that I haven’t cleaned my house, like really, really cleaned it in quite some time. She’s been to my house. I had to go retrieve the shovel out of her garage to pick up her jaw.

I have a secret weapon. Actually, I have 2 secret weapons. Secret Weapon #1 is DH. He abhors clutter. He is always “straightening” up. Picking up crap that I or The Kid have left all over the house because I don’t care what. If it’s been a long day and I come into the house with crap, I will drop that crap right wherever I am standing and worry about it later. Like way later. Like, if I didn’t have DH, it would still be there, later.

Secret Weapon #2 are those cute little Lysol wipes that you can buy in Costco in a three pack. Here’s how it goes: My phone rings, “ring, ring.”  “Hello,” says me.  “Hey Mo, it’s Justin Timberlake. I feel like I want to pop on by. Are you free?” “Hells yes, JT. I’m always free for you.” I’m all panicky inside for a moment. But not to worry because I have SW2 (Secret Weapon #2) sitting in just about every closet in my house.

 

Look, JT is all "damn girl, your house is clean."

Look, JT is all “damn girl, your house is cleeeeen. Yeah.”

I whip out a canister and go to town. I wipe down the counters, the bathroom sinks, the heating baseboard thingies, I even stick my hand in the toilet and wipe clean those unsightly, nasty rings in there. Why does that happen? It’s so gross. But don’t worry I wash my hand real good before I make you a ham sandwich.

Oh wait, my rug. Damn, that foyer runner gets dirt and paper lint and whoknowswhatelse all over it. But have no fear! I have the cutest little vacuum cleaner that doesn’t even need to be plugged in that hubby bought back some time ago.

I go retrieve that from the little mud room and VOILA! It’s super powerful and super fast and I don’t have to worry about unwinding the cord and finding an outlet and tripping all over it and then winding that bad boy back up and then shoving it back into a closet that has so much crap in there that it’s nearly impossible to close the door.

I guess I really have 3 Secret Weapons. Okay, sorry about that.

So, by the time JT gets here, my house not only sparkles, but it smells clean too. Even if he is just at the corner, I have literally cleaned my house in 37 seconds. But the trick is to not give him a tour of the ranch. I make sure the upstairs is off limits. You know, make up some little white lie like “we’re having the master bathroom renovated and there is just dust everywhere. I’m telling you. Those damn bathroom renovator guys are so sloppy.”

Here’s the thing:  life is too short for cleaning all the time. I can’t see a reason to be on top of it.  So what?  I’m pretty sure no one has actually died from having a less than perfectly clean house. I mean I never actually did any research on that subject, but I’ll bet I’m right.

When I was first married, I was really good at keeping the house clean. Once a week no matter what, I’d clean the house from top to bottom. Even when The Kid was born. I would strap that baby to the front of me in one of those fake Baby Bjorn things and go to town.

And then DH asked me what I wanted for my birthday one year. “A housecleaner” came out of my mouth without thinking about it twice. This was when I went back to work as a temp so it was justified. It was heaven on earth. Every other week this house would get a scrub-down. And on the other every other week? Eh. Why bother? The housecleaner was coming in 7 days.

Then I lost my job. And DH and I thought it was an expense that we didn’t need to have especially since I had all this new free time. Now? Well, I just told you. The end.

Wanna come over? JT will be here any minute. Oh, wait. He didn’t really call, did he? Never mind, you can’t come over. The house is a mess.

I Need a Wife?

I like that she can make cocktails too

It would be a bonus if she came with a cocktail shaker.

A friend of mine recently asked me to write about the need of a wife for a wife.  I would love to sit here and say, “Lord, I need a wife.  BAD.  I’m tired of the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry and the…did I mention cleaning?”  DH reads my blog.  He would laugh his ass off to a heart attack if I lied.  So, let’s pretend.  A little.  Because I do lots of stuff.  I do.

Aaaah.  I am so tired.  Do you know what I need?  A damn wife.  Seriously.  If I could only at the very least clone myself, my life would be complete.  If I had a mini-me, here is what I would have her do:

  • She would do ALL the laundry in a timely manner.  Meaning, the laundry would be washed, dried, folded and put away.  She would even iron. My clone would save my house from burning down because she would have the memory of a freakin’ elephant and unplug the iron when she is finished.  REALITY:  I do a load when the clothes are spilling out onto the floor.  I leave the load in the washer for a day or two, then when it makes it into the dryer, they sit for another day or two.  I don’t iron anything unless absolutely necessary.  Sometimes even just wearing wrinkly clothes because I can’t be bothered.
  • Every Sunday, my clone would sit and write out an entire weekly menu.  Then write a grocery list, not forgetting a thing followed by going to the grocery store.  Again, not forgetting a thing.  My clone would cut coupons, therefore saving us money.  REALITY:  I write a half-ass list.  Then run out the door when I only have an hour to shop.  I forget half the crap on my list, therefore forcing me to visit my most favorite place on earth several times a week.  I haven’t cut a damn coupon in 18 years.  After all, the little plastic card on my key ring IS the coupon, isn’t it?
  • My clone would clean the house every single day.  I envision Alice from The Brady Bunch.  REALITY:  Hmmm.  Maybe I shouldn’t tell you the reality.  My mother-in-law is reading.  She thinks I’m a clean freak.  I seriously don’t want to blow my cover.  Let’s just say thank the Good Lord for Clorox Wipes and that if MIL calls and says she’s coming over, I have an hour to get my shit together.  It’s also good to have a teenager to make do stuff.  That’s partly why I had her.
  • My clone would make beautiful, extravagant dinners every single night while wearing an apron and then put all the dishes in the dishwasher, clean the pots and pans and wash the floor.      REALITY:  I make dinner about 4 nights a week.  Sometimes 5.  Ok, so the dinners may be the same week after week, but it’s dinner.  I have ruined every single shirt I own because I forget there is such a thing as an apron.  I try to clean the kitchen before I go to bed but sometimes I forget.  Or more accurately, I sit on the couch with a glass of wine and get into lazy mode.  I vacuum up the floor at least once a week.  At least.
  • She would write out the bills, balance the checkbook, put loads of money in the savings account and send us on an extravagant (there goes that word again) vacation every July.  REALITY:  DH does all but send us on an extravagant vacation.  Because The Kid is going to college in two and a half years.  I haven’t touched the checkbook since I accidentally put an extra zero on the end of our mortgage payment in 1999.
  • My clone would drive The Kid around to all her activities.  Even her friends.  REALITY:  I actually do this.  It’s out of control.  I need to start charging a fee.  Professional drivers charge.  So why not?  Too bad all of The Kid’s money comes from me (actually DH, but I’m not talking about him needing a wife, am I?  Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud.).
  • My clone would have a cocktail ready for DH at the end of his busy day.  REALITY:  Bahahahaha!  Oops, I just peed a little.  And DH usually makes ME the cocktail at the end of a busy day.  True story.
  • My clone would work on my projects.  Including my office.  REALITY:  That shit is going to be there for life, I’m afraid.  I’ll just throw a sheet over it.  No one will ever notice.
This is my office.  I can't sit in my office.

This is my office. I can’t sit in my office.  Ooh, I think I see a coupon in there.  Think it has expired?

Damn.  That was exhausting.  I need to rest.  And to all you women out there who actually do all that stuff, I commend you.  Or I should say condemn you.  You really make me look bad.  Still.  I think I need a wife.  They clone sheep, don’t they?  So, it’s not completely out of the question, right?  RIGHT?