The little cleanup
For as long as I can remember I’ve had a nagging in my belly.
I know it wasn’t from my daily kid snacks of olives, Cheese Whiz on Cheez-it crackers and deviled eggs. (I had a slight binging problem in my adolescence.) The uneasiness in my tum tum came from something else.
The feeling is like I have to take a deuce, but also someone threw some moths in my stomach and they only occasionally slosh around when I’ve settled into my routine, feeling halfway decent about the general productiveness of my life.
Every day I make promises to myself, I will clean that one thing, or I will organize this room today, the upstairs next, out into the garage after that, then down my street and eventually out into the world for the Great American Cleanup.
Everything in my home will already have been cleaned and I can do volunteer work because I have so much free time, I can clean someone else’s shitstorm.
I tell myself, I will get rid of that bin in the basement filled with a ripped up comforter and popcorn maker. I will purge that God forsaken juicer that just sits on my counter top, mocking me.
I’m sorry if I like fiber with my fruits and veggies, you Mr. Juicer can go fuck yourself.
I will one day fold my underwear I got at the grocery/everything else youcouldpossiblyneedinoneshoppingtrip store, into teeny tiny squares and it will make me happy.
I will some day clean the mouse shit from under my sink and in the attic. I will take a fabric softener sheet to all my baseboards to get the dust off.
Actually you know what, no. I’m not ever going to do that. I will never make the effort to grab a fabric softener from the basement so I can go upstairs to crawl around on hands and knees polishing a half inch section of wood that no one looks at anyways. I have a job for crap’s sake.
Real Simple magazine, I despise you for making me feel guilty for not doing something I never even knew I needed to do in the first place.
I constantly look around my humble abode and feel nothing but disgust with myself because I don’t own a double boiler, or is it broiler, I don’t even fucking know.
I don’t even have children, I have two dogs and although their repertoire of vomit and diarrhea situations could rival any kid, I know they’re not the same.
So why can’t I just clean the shit up…put everything in it’s place and be fine with the President doing a surprise visit (I used to mumble under my breath when mom made me dust that “The President isn’t coming, so why do I need to dust your stupid ass glass unicorns.”)
Sorry mom, I love them now, I just hated cleaning them.
But no more, if I’m going to get this blog thing going , I need more writing time.
I’ve realized, I don’t need to live up to the Better Homes and Garden’s ideal of what a home should look like. Maybe it’s because I live in Indiana, but I’ve NEVER been to a home that looked like the photos in those magazines.
Also, NO ONE MAKES DINNER IN A DRESS, ESPECIALLY ONE THAT REQUIRES A ROLLING PIN.
I did realize though, I do need some order to things
While looking at my newsfeed, instead of cleaning, I came across “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing,” by Marie Kondo.
My stomach started to flip flop while reading the article. Not in the asshole moths in my belly kind of way, but more of a baby caterpillar tickling around trying to make me fart and laugh kind of way.
So, I went out and got the book. It took two days to read and now it’s already in the hands of a co-worker, as well as another co-worker in line to get it next.
I may be living dangerously by not keeping it while I go through the process, but I felt I needed to pass it on….plus I took some good notes.
I’ll get into more details on the method and process soon, but for now this is where I’m at. I want to reclaim my safe haven, my cave, my refuge, my beloved closet.