I planted geraniums and pulled out a few deceased plants and got myself dirty and sweaty - very satisfying. Part of my impulse to beautify is, of course, that guests are coming for five days next week. Nothing gets me inspired like panic. I only clean when it is a matter of imminent humiliation. Luckily, I have this gift: I pick up stuff. I carry the stuff at the bottom of the stairs upstairs, I straighten pillows and rugs, I put away books and magazines. So I get credited with having a clean house when really it is just there is nothing out of place. If you actually were to pull out a book, and I wouldn't recommend it, you would notice dust coating the top. If you focused on the rug, you'd see it badly needed vacuuming. It's amazing to me what straightening up does for a place.
I think the origin of this was my immaculate mother, who both straightened and cleaned. But I got compulsive when the kids were little and I just wanted one room not to be filled with legos and playmobil figures to step on. I made sure there was one place to sit where I didn't feel I was in the middle of a toy store that had been bombed. But now it's gone beyond that. I actually open the door to my guest bedroom and stare at the neatness. The sheets are clean, the bed is made, not a thing is out of place. Then I go into the other rooms and pick up dog toys, grab handfuls of dog hair from the corners, and take a load of magazines to the recycling bin. I know that getting out the vacuum would be wise, and the dust cloth and spider web extendable brush, but that really doesn't appeal to me. And really, in soft focus, the house looks pretty damned good.
No comments:
Post a Comment