Lazy Perfectionism - My Housewifery Malady
I'm on day three of my house cleaning reformation and I think the program is working to some degree. It's actually fun to go downstairs in the morning and walk through the livingroom without embedding a child's toy in my foot. And I love pouring my morning coffee while gazing at my reflection in the shiny, clean sink. Well, my morning reflection isn't all that to gaze upon, but the clean sink... it's enough to make me think about brushing my teeth before 9 am.
I've made a few discoveries about myself so far on this journey. I have discovered that I dislike lemon scented furniture polish and prefer instead the old church smell of oil soap. I have discovered that it takes exactly 52 minutes to dry a load of towels. I've also discovered that my fridge is an evolution acceleration chamber. Things go in there mere vegetables, but after several months have passed, they come out sentient beings. I had a conversation the other day with a 9 month old carrot who sounded astonishingly like George W. Bush. It kept saying something about weapons of mass destruction hidden in the meat drawer. But when I looked, all I found was a half eaten bologna sandwich trying to date a two year old cheese stick with a PhD. It's a wild, wild world in there.
Most importantly, however, this journey into the realm of order and organization has brought about self-discovery. I have determined that I am a lazy perfectionist with a mean obsessive-compulsive streak thrown in for color. Let me explain.
Basically, it is in my nature to have a clean, perfect house. When I mean perfect, I mean Better Homes and Gardens' cover perfect. But who can accomplish that with two kids, two dogs, a late working husband and only 24 hours in a day? Well, I mean besides my friend and fellow mom, Amy. Her house is so clean you could lick her carpet and come away without even a single fuzzy on your tongue. Her house screams "clean." I've never actually been there to see it for myself, but I hear it screaming "clean" in the background when I call her. While we chat, Amy usually scrubs her floors. On the other hand, I play hamper hoops with dirty socks or pull dog hair out of the baby's mouth.
But the reason I act like this is because of my perfectionist nature. If I do it, I want it to be perfect. But I don't want to work that hard because I'm lazy. So, I do nothing. Today is a perfect example.
I was told by the almighty to do list that I was to vacuum the upstairs bedrooms, loft, and hallways. In order to do this, thinks I, all toys, books, clothes, the occasional mixing bowl and grapefruit spoon and the rest of the miscellany cluttering the floor must be picked up and put away. I did this for over an hour and then looked into my daughter's room. The place looked as if it were an airsick bag for a Toys R Us on a turbulent flight. Toys and clothes intertwined with books and bedding. Had I picked it all up so I could vacuum, it would have taken me the remainder of the day. I couldn't do that since I had promised Reilly Kate I would take her to the pool. Now, I can't go back on a promise like that, can I?
My natural inclination was to scrap the vacuuming idea altogether. I do this kind of scrapping often, in fact. If there is just too much to do to make the job perfect, I scrap it. This is why with two shedding dogs, my Berber carpet feels more like a dog skin rug. I can actually pet my carpet. My daughter offers it milkbones. It either needs to be vacuumed or sent to the groomer. And so, I took one more look at my ever present to do list and vacuumed around all the junk. I just made a path to her bed and hoovered that. Then I hoovered all the other rooms that I had already picked up.
My upstairs is so much cleaner now. No, not perfect. But cleaner. I feel better despite the episode still playing in my mind obsessively. I still want to go in and pick up her room then hoover what remains in there. But at 11:30 pm, I'm sure to wake her. I guess I'll just take a nice cleansing breath and go downstairs to talk quantum physics with the eggplant living in the crisper.
I've made a few discoveries about myself so far on this journey. I have discovered that I dislike lemon scented furniture polish and prefer instead the old church smell of oil soap. I have discovered that it takes exactly 52 minutes to dry a load of towels. I've also discovered that my fridge is an evolution acceleration chamber. Things go in there mere vegetables, but after several months have passed, they come out sentient beings. I had a conversation the other day with a 9 month old carrot who sounded astonishingly like George W. Bush. It kept saying something about weapons of mass destruction hidden in the meat drawer. But when I looked, all I found was a half eaten bologna sandwich trying to date a two year old cheese stick with a PhD. It's a wild, wild world in there.
Most importantly, however, this journey into the realm of order and organization has brought about self-discovery. I have determined that I am a lazy perfectionist with a mean obsessive-compulsive streak thrown in for color. Let me explain.
Basically, it is in my nature to have a clean, perfect house. When I mean perfect, I mean Better Homes and Gardens' cover perfect. But who can accomplish that with two kids, two dogs, a late working husband and only 24 hours in a day? Well, I mean besides my friend and fellow mom, Amy. Her house is so clean you could lick her carpet and come away without even a single fuzzy on your tongue. Her house screams "clean." I've never actually been there to see it for myself, but I hear it screaming "clean" in the background when I call her. While we chat, Amy usually scrubs her floors. On the other hand, I play hamper hoops with dirty socks or pull dog hair out of the baby's mouth.
But the reason I act like this is because of my perfectionist nature. If I do it, I want it to be perfect. But I don't want to work that hard because I'm lazy. So, I do nothing. Today is a perfect example.
I was told by the almighty to do list that I was to vacuum the upstairs bedrooms, loft, and hallways. In order to do this, thinks I, all toys, books, clothes, the occasional mixing bowl and grapefruit spoon and the rest of the miscellany cluttering the floor must be picked up and put away. I did this for over an hour and then looked into my daughter's room. The place looked as if it were an airsick bag for a Toys R Us on a turbulent flight. Toys and clothes intertwined with books and bedding. Had I picked it all up so I could vacuum, it would have taken me the remainder of the day. I couldn't do that since I had promised Reilly Kate I would take her to the pool. Now, I can't go back on a promise like that, can I?
My natural inclination was to scrap the vacuuming idea altogether. I do this kind of scrapping often, in fact. If there is just too much to do to make the job perfect, I scrap it. This is why with two shedding dogs, my Berber carpet feels more like a dog skin rug. I can actually pet my carpet. My daughter offers it milkbones. It either needs to be vacuumed or sent to the groomer. And so, I took one more look at my ever present to do list and vacuumed around all the junk. I just made a path to her bed and hoovered that. Then I hoovered all the other rooms that I had already picked up.
My upstairs is so much cleaner now. No, not perfect. But cleaner. I feel better despite the episode still playing in my mind obsessively. I still want to go in and pick up her room then hoover what remains in there. But at 11:30 pm, I'm sure to wake her. I guess I'll just take a nice cleansing breath and go downstairs to talk quantum physics with the eggplant living in the crisper.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 3:39 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home