Once upon a time, I used to keep a phenomenally clean house. (Notice the use of the past tense.) I also used to be pissed off at the end of each day, eager to jump in to bed and fall asleep before my husband wandered in search of me, short-tempered when the Big-Eyed Boy sloshed juice and sprinkled crumbs all over the floor. I insisted on cleaning house — or at least the more visible areas — before family or friends came to visit, even if they were just stopping by for a matter of hours, and quite often had to wake up three or four hours early to get this done before they arrived. I never had time to work on my book, to exercise, or even to bathe and put on makeup until the very last 30 minutes before I had to rush out the door and pick the kids up from school.

But, hey, I had a very clean house.

A few months back, I decided that a clean house was highly overrated. It started with a slow realization that, while I might spend my entire day cleaning the place, not a single person who walked in the door — family members included — seemed to notice anything more than whether it “smelled clean.” By this, they were referring to the smell of the citrus-scented cleaning products and not the lack of competing aromas from the cat box, the kitchen sink and the trash can.

I know this for a fact because one day when I was preparing to clean, I accidentally spilled half a bottle of cleaning solution on the kitchen floor. My efforts to wipe this up were interrupted by a saleslady ringing my doorbell, and by the time I’d listened to her spiel about hypoallergenic air filters for my HV/AC system, it was time to bathe and go get the kids. Sure enough, the first things they said when we got home was “Oh, the house smells so clean!” By the time the Venomous Hubby got home, I still had made no further cleaning progress but he didn’t notice either. He assumed it was clean because of the smell.

About the time I got in the habit of eating at least one orange per day and simmering the peel on the stove in a small pot of water, I also found out that friends could not possibly care less whether my house was clean when they arrived. Aside from my husband’s family, most visitors to our house wind up almost immediately in the basement family room where we spend the evening having cocktails or beers, playing board games or darts, and otherwise hanging out until very late hours. Between the dim lighting and the alcohol, they never noticed the fine layer of dust coating the tables — provided it didn’t obscure the TV screen.

My family quickly adjusted to living in semi-darkness, and my husband’s rather pleased with the way I hand him a cold beer as soon as he walks in the door at night. Of course, I can’t pull the same stunt with the kids but — if their rooms are any indication — they seem to find comfort in grime, clutter and dust.

Suddenly, I was no longer spending my entire day cleaning and opening drapes or blinds. I had free time! Several hours of it, in fact, since I was no longer spending my evenings grumbling at my family for messing up the house I’d spent all day cleaning. Freedom! Liberation! Equality! Well, except that I hate grime, clutter and dust… but not nearly as much as I hate never having a moment to myself.

So, about three weeks ago, I begged Hubby to convert a large basement walk-in closet into my office. I pointed out that he has an office, our daughter has a desk in her room where she does her homework, and even our little boy has a table of his own in the kitchen where he does his art projects and other messy tasks. Out of the entire family, I was the one home most of the day and yet I had no place set aside just for me. (This, I assured him, was why I’d not yet finished my novel.) I needed a small area — with a door — where I could house my desk, books and all the pretty little knickknacks and tchotchkes he’d given me over the years.

A few days later, my office was ready. I moved my desk in and set up my computer. I arranged my favorite books on the shelves, turning some this way and some that, interspersing my favorite objets d’art in a calculatedly random-looking fashion, and built up a good cache of my favorite snacks which I no longer have to share with the kids because they — like my husband — aren’t allowed in here. The items on my desk are positioned precisely where I want them to be and a lovely (but extremely fragile) bowl of potpourri exudes a delicate but feminine scent.

Best yet, my office is clean. It is spotless. When I use something, I put it back precisely where it belongs. Having warned everyone in my family that they will die if they enter my office without permission, I never need fear of finding one of my things has been “borrowed” but never returned. My wood desk gleams from being polished each time I need a distraction from writing (at least once a day), and the books remain alphabetically sorted in topical categories on my finger-print and dust-free shelves. It’s heaven in here.

Of course, sooner or later I’m going to have to deal with the Christmas ornaments that remain strewn throughout the living room and the trail of muddy shoeprints leading from the garage door across the kitchen tile and into the rest of the house. I don’t recall hearing the kids’ toilet being flushed in quite some time now, and I can’t tell if the reason my husband and kids walk around with their hands over their noses and mouths is due to that fact or the dustclouds that billow up from the carpet wherever they walk. This morning, as I was boiling orange peels on the stove after pouring some cleaning liquid in the kitchen sink, I heard my son yelp as he opened his backpack and found the odiferous remnants of Friday’s tuna sandwich and yogurt. I’m not sure where the cat is — come to think of it, I haven’t seen him for a week — and, if I’m not mistaken, the outfit my husband wore to work this morning is the same one he’d worn on Friday… right down to the pizza sauce on his shirtfront. I can’t be sure, though. I only saw him in passing as I hurried down to my office so I could get the desk polished before having a cup of perfectly-brewed coffee from the little French press I keep in here.

You know what this all means, don’t you?

I installed a lock on my office door yesterday. They’re never gonna take me out of here alive. Never! Mwahahahahahaha!

Monday, January 23rd, 2006, 12:25 pm   |   My Venomous Life  |  RSS feed Comments and pings are currently closed.