My son is back at his college dorm and once again, I am afraid to look in his room. One glance can bring on a deep depression, as deep as the pile of dirty clothes hiding 75% of his floor space.
The thought of attacking it is akin to climbing Mt. Everest and I think I’m not in that good of shape to take it on. I could just get a flag and plant it on the mound of clothes, but what country would want to lay claim to it?
My daughter was kind and did a bit of cleaning after he visited home last time but any good done was quickly undone at Thanksgiving break. There might even be a turkey in there hiding, I don’t know. This is the kid who instead of doing laundry at school, went to Walmart and bought 16 more pair.
Has anyone invented disposable underwear? Huggies for babies, Pull Ups for toddlers, Depends for Seniors and Put Offs for lazy young men?
“How soon ‘not now’ becomes ‘never’.” ~ Martin Luthor
Well I found out that the girls have not been very good housekeepers this week. I have guests coming to spend a few days and I had planned on putting them up in the girls’ old rooms. I discovered that they probably hadn’t been dusted since the last high school graduation, and that anyone in those rooms would likely suffer from a Vitamin D deficiency because the sun can’t come through the heavy coating of grime on the windows.
I cleaned and cleaned and now it probably looks like high school kids actually did clean up there. Of course the day before our guests are scheduled to arrive, a colony of ants decided to move into the guest bathroom. As I entered and wondered what that moving and bubbling mass of black was on the window sill, I looked to to see what was crunching under my feet. Hopefully the ant treatment will kick in before my guests do.
My son cleaned his room too. I can now see 50% of the floor which is more than I have seen in months. Good thing the ants hadn’t decided to move into his room. It would be some time before anyone would have been able to notice.
“Ants and savages put strangers to death.” ~ Bertrand Russell
Lately, I have been rather content to “let a few things slide”. That includes the state of my refrigerator, which could use the loving touch of a canister of Lysol wipes.
My husband, knowing how proud I am (and fully realizing that sometimes it is the only thing that motivates me sometimes) told me that he noticed the fridge was getting a bit gummy and he would clean it out for me. In the recent past, I would be ticked off enough and tell him to butt out and I’d do it myself. In other words, he would shame me into such tasks. This time I said, “Sure.” He was totally perplexed.
My poor “dear” in the headlights was not expecting such a prideless wife. It got to be 6 o’clock that night and he still hadn’t done it yet. As it was true that it needed cleaning (I am having 18 people over for Thanksgiving and some will undoubtedly at least one will just have to go into the fridge), I decided to take matters into my own hands, but not get them too dirty. I began to wash out ONE, count ‘em, one drawer. I knew that he hates a job half-done and it would kill him. Worked like a charm.
He’s up there now going through the old loaves of bread with one crust left that I couldn’t toss out, the chocolate from two Easters ago, the freezer-burned hot dogs that were terrible but I got because they were on sale but that no one would eat and wiping away things that were once edible but are now unrecognizable. I think the blue stuff was peach yogurt that has slowly begun to sport a growth of some kind of penicillin. Whatever.
I knew he didn’t want his family to see what was really in our refrigerator, which is what got this whole thing started. His pride. Mine is waning in my old age and my guess is that this is probably good for my heart or reduces stress or has some other wonder health benefit.
That’s my story and I am sticking to it. Better than sticking to the stuff in the bottom of my fridge.
“It is better to lose your pride with someone you love rather than to lose that someone you love with your useless pride.” ~ Anonymous