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.
June is the month I’ve been waiting for — for a number of reasons, not the least of which is little my brother’s 8th grade graduation (Finally, the bearded fuzzball boychild is leaving middle school and joining the ranks of Others Who Shave! Huzzah!) and the incipient birth of a nephew (at least my sister looks like she reallllly hopes so), but because the