Every once in awhile I question the meaning of the life, my sanity, and my purpose in the universe in general. I do note that these times of questioning seem to coincide neatly with house cleaning.
Housekeeping is a word that gives me the creeps. Though it is such an awesome book, all about keeping a place for one’s soul in the midst of errata, the task of housekeeping these days is much murkier. First, you’re faced with the perkiness factor:
Did you not know that American housewives are some of the Happiest People On Earth? Look at the commercials – you’ll see us skinning and grinning, gleeful as meth addicts with our starched blouses, crisp clam diggers and highly artificially scented chemical products. Just once I’d like to see a.) a commercial featuring a man doing something like mounds of ironing, or hugging small children with fond exasperation as it pukes, upends something on a spotless floor, or takes a mudbath while you’re doing laundry or cleaning stains out of the carpet, or b.) an unhappy person doing housework, whose life is not suddenly and inexplicably changed due to a Dow Chemicals product. [Better Living Through Chemistry, Part Deux.]
The second creepy thing about housekeeping in this country is that American women who keep house are sexually desperate and/or deviant, and will ostensibly attack anything upright and male – door-to-door salesmen, the pool boy, or whatever clichéd blue collar I’ll-come-to-your-house-to-fix-it person you can find. Shows like Desperate Housewives have started to make me feel like I have a stunted sex drive – I mean, honestly, aren’t I meant to be swanning around in cling-wrap and feathered mules? Shame on me in my jeans and tee’s — what chromosomes am I missing?
And then, there’s the whole Cult of the Puritanically Clean house keeping thing that bugs me. I am serious about recycling, trying to eat locally first, organically second, trying to reduce my environmental impact on this rapidly dissolving dirtball upon which we live. Now, there are umpty-million options for ‘eco-friendly’ ‘natural’ and ‘convenient’ products to make your house “allergen free” and “safe.” First of all, I don’t think that people seventy-five years ago had hypoallergenic homes. They didn’t die from the actual earth-dirt in their houses. Second, most of these über-clean sanitation products seem to create excess garbage and ozone holes. How many disposable cleaning options do we really need? First it was just baby wipes and the like – things you don’t really want to reuse anyway. And then it was washcloths, which, I don’t know about you, but I tend to wash mine? Then it was oil-impregnated dust cloths, cleanser-stuffed disposable toilet brushes, disposable dish-wipes, and on and on. Honestly, no matter how convenient as they are, I feel downright guilty owning a Swiffer (and props to Natalie Dee for the cartoon). I refuse to go all the way to perdition, and get a Wet Jet. It’s bad enough that I wipe the floor with something else I throw away.
Every once in awhile, I question myself, my sanity, and the meaning of life. And frankly, I’m just not finding it in housekeeping
Sigh. Back to cleaning out the closet.
Seriously, Neil. So much stuff in our house “no longer exists” that I’m afraid to open certain closet doors…
I actually own a WetJet (didn’t purchase it myself–it was given to me, I swear) and yes, it is a maxi pad on a stick with a squirty detergent attachment. But it’s surprisingly convenient if you don’t have time to actually mop.
I think cleaning is evil.
I’ll stick with that thesis, thanks.
I do like the idea of invisible things that no longer exist, however.
You see, I think carpets are brilliant for exactly the same reason! With carpets, you don’t notice the filth. And if you don’t notice it, it’s not there, right? That’s Occam’s razor, folks!
I’ve had to invoke Occam’s razor before to help me dispose of the polystyrene packaging that came with our fridge. The roofspace in our house is dark and mostly inaccessible. So anything that’s in the roofspace, essentially, ceases to exist. Right?
I love doing things like this and shouting “Never to be seen again!” in a really creepy way. The girl will come running, wondering what I’ve hidden. “Nothing,” I’ll say. “Doesn’t exist, now.”
I just need to point out, regarding cleaning, that wall-to-wall carpeting is evil. Every day, as I examine the small piles of … schmutz, gathering in odd places upon the wood floors, I realize that I would have never seen it, if we still had carpet.
Swiffers are evil, but … they work. And the other thing? That thing which is reusable, and which does the same thing? Can’t find it anywhere. Imagine that.