This is actually about my mother, again

No one has ever accused me of sloth, but I do not care for housecleaning. I have stated that before but I don’t think anyone could actually understand the degree to which I dislike doing anything that requires wearing rubber gloves. It’s not that my house is inordinately messy or unhealthy, but well, one time I found a small lizard struggling in a spider web that had accumulated under the Victorian table in the front hall. That could have happened in anyone’s house, right? I have excuses, five cats, a more than full time job, the 8 or 9 hours I spend at the gym each week, and well this writing addiction, none of which would have stood up for 10 seconds under my mother’s withering gaze.

Friday I had the day off and I woke with the intent of spending some well deserved time sitting on the sofa writing.  I had an appointment at 11 and then I planned to do a little laundry. After all, this was a decidedly ass kicking work week, and while the wine pairing class at whole food Thursday looked like a great way to relax, the hour and half at the gym after with my daughter was brutal.  When my feet hit the floor at the usual 6:30 Friday morning every muscle in my body was shrieking “WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?”

I was sitting on the sofa with my laptop open, first sentence written, when my daughter burst into the kitchen like a canary just escaped from it’s cage. “Come on and get dressed Mom,” she chirped. “We can go to body pump at 8, then run for an hour, and then do the muscle conditioning class.” I know it’s hard to explain, but the girl has some sort of mesmerism that compels everyone to do her bidding, especially me. Of course she only has my best interest at heart. I explained to her when I put my loaded bar down on floor in front of my bench, “You have added years to my life, but they equal the ones you have taken away.”  I did not have to explain that to her or to anyone who knows her. Thank the lord I had the appointment at 11 or I would have ended up in that freaking muscle conditioning class, passed out on the floor.

When I got home at 2:00 the sofa and the laptop looked so appealing, but the girl was in cleaning mode. She met her boyfriend’s parents last weekend and found out why Marc keeps his house so clean. His mother asked her son if my girl could cook. He told her she was an amazing cook. Then she asked if she cleaned.  Now I’m thinking these were the perfect questions to ask when you’re hiring a maid, but not so much when you are interviewing a possible daughter in law in 2009.  Still, he’s coming this weekend and our house does not pass the white glove test, so the girl has me up on my feet again.  

Finally this morning she has gone to work and I am sitting in my immaculate living room with a cup of coffee and blessed silence. As much as I hate housework, I love a clean house, fresh crisp sheet, the smell of furniture polish, and those little vacuum tracks on the family room rug.  Funny thought, it’s actually a little easier to write when the place is cluttered, guilty pleasure being one of my specialties.

When I was a little girl I came bursting into the house one day with roses from my grandmother’s garden. My mother told me I could not put flowers in the house until it was clean. I immediately pictured the lovely profusion of roses and hydrangeas that were sitting amid the dust and clutter on my grandmother’s dining room table. I think that might have been the minute I decided there was nothing wrong with a house that looked like people lived there, but as much as I hate to admit it, I still don’t put flowers out unless my house is clean. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go buy a bouquet. Have a great weekend.