The Opposite of Fun
Today, I clean.
You know those commercials for cleaning products on television, where a woman discovers a new product and just can't stop cleaning, she's having soooo much fun? And then you learn she's just cleaned a neighbor's house or some store display, because it feels so good to clean? Bah! Humbug! Cleaning isn't fun. No amount orgasmic housewives on my television will convince me that it is. And no amount of satisfaction in a job well done will entice me to clean anyone else's space just to keep the feeling going.
I really truly hate cleaning. Anyone who has seen my childhood bedroom knows that I live in chaos. But since Elliott is perhaps even worse than I*, the impetus to clean must come from me. Usually before we have guests over. And this coming week, I'll have to bring the clean extra hard.
Because next weekend, we face the ultimate test.
Children. Small children. In our house. Eating things off our floor.
Elliott's friends Jason and Tanisha will be bringing her 3 year old and their 1 year old for the weekend. Before they come, we have to clean, babyproof, and consider what would be the optimal sleeping arrangements. The current plan is for the parents to sleep on the futon in the living room, and then the children in the computer room because it opens up to the living room (as opposed to being across the house like the other guest room). On Tuesday, my friend Rebecca will likely be coming over to inspect the place and make sure it's safe for children. Then they arrive on Friday to a hopefully kid friendly home.
Today so far I've put away laundry, scrubbed the bathtub, hung the new shower liner, swept and mopped the floor and shook out the bathmats. My goal is to have the computer room cleaned by the end of the day. And since Elliott is off entertaining potential Chemistry recruits, he's going to come home to a snarling and grumpy Abi
* The other day as I washed dishes and simultaneously bitched about washing dishes, I learned that he never had to wash dishes as a child, his mother always did them. Or, for a quarter, his sister would. No wonder his dishwashing technique is sloppy. I can't imagine such an unfair division of power-- hell, I'm looking forward to having children for the sole reason that then I'll have someone to foist the dish washing duties onto.
You know those commercials for cleaning products on television, where a woman discovers a new product and just can't stop cleaning, she's having soooo much fun? And then you learn she's just cleaned a neighbor's house or some store display, because it feels so good to clean? Bah! Humbug! Cleaning isn't fun. No amount orgasmic housewives on my television will convince me that it is. And no amount of satisfaction in a job well done will entice me to clean anyone else's space just to keep the feeling going.
I really truly hate cleaning. Anyone who has seen my childhood bedroom knows that I live in chaos. But since Elliott is perhaps even worse than I*, the impetus to clean must come from me. Usually before we have guests over. And this coming week, I'll have to bring the clean extra hard.
Because next weekend, we face the ultimate test.
Children. Small children. In our house. Eating things off our floor.
Elliott's friends Jason and Tanisha will be bringing her 3 year old and their 1 year old for the weekend. Before they come, we have to clean, babyproof, and consider what would be the optimal sleeping arrangements. The current plan is for the parents to sleep on the futon in the living room, and then the children in the computer room because it opens up to the living room (as opposed to being across the house like the other guest room). On Tuesday, my friend Rebecca will likely be coming over to inspect the place and make sure it's safe for children. Then they arrive on Friday to a hopefully kid friendly home.
Today so far I've put away laundry, scrubbed the bathtub, hung the new shower liner, swept and mopped the floor and shook out the bathmats. My goal is to have the computer room cleaned by the end of the day. And since Elliott is off entertaining potential Chemistry recruits, he's going to come home to a snarling and grumpy Abi
* The other day as I washed dishes and simultaneously bitched about washing dishes, I learned that he never had to wash dishes as a child, his mother always did them. Or, for a quarter, his sister would. No wonder his dishwashing technique is sloppy. I can't imagine such an unfair division of power-- hell, I'm looking forward to having children for the sole reason that then I'll have someone to foist the dish washing duties onto.