The Friday before our landlord, Ben Bakhshi, announces he is coming by on Saturday to discuss our deposit return process and take pictures of the apartment in preparation for finding his new tenant, I’m cleaning. Well, that is, after I secluded myself in my bunker of blankets and pillows, fortified by two cups of coffee, one in a thermos to stay warm so I wouldn’t have to get up again, and my laptop for wirelessly communicating nonsense on Facebook for the entirety of the morning, and then partially into the afternoon. Then I got hungry and had to get up.
Looking at the apartment in a new light since I have only four more nights to sleep here, I took a good scrutinous look around. Ben might scowl at the dark colonies of dust bunnies that have overbred above each doorway. He might also take a severe look at the dark coloring the spaces that were once white between the little yellow 1960-style tiles set in a diagonal pattern on the kitchen counter top. They’re probably originals, maybe older than me. But the grout should be white.
So out to the cleaning supplies shed I went seeking the bleach hiding in the back corner. “okay, buddy, out you come. Follow me; we have some work to do. And bring your little friend, Mr. Ajax.”
I’ve never been known for my cleaning prowess. I’ve never had marriage proposals of “I love you, Bobbie, and you’re such a good house keeper…will you marry me?” Perhaps that gene was snapped up by my older sister, Patty, cleaning goddess supreme. Or it could have been her coming behind me and my dust rag on late Saturday mornings, my head still full of Bullwinkle and Rocky (how would they get out of that pickle they were in now?) wiping up after me and showing me the right way which I never seemed to catch onto.
So for years I got away with sloppy.
Now mind you, I’m not unclean. I vacuum and clean the floors. I scrub the toilet. I do my dishes regularly. I clean the fridge. Not necessarily in that order. But windows and blinds and grout and scrubbing down walls? Nah. I just don’t think about it or would rather pay someone else to do it for me.
I can imagine a shiver going down Patty’s spine if she ever reads this. How can we have shared the same gene pool? How?
But this afternoon the grout now sparkles as best it can at 50-something. And the door casings are void of their bunnies. The tub is gleaming white, and there shall be nary a sign of a cobweb by tomorrow morn when Ben arrives.
So, the question begs, why do I not clean like this for myself? I like how it feels. It really doesn’t take that much effort or time. Where do I spend my extra time? Is it a matter of discipline or is there a bad taste in my mouth about cleaning; a sense of incompetence? And if so, it’s not fair or right to lean on that old worn out crutch some 40 years later.
Maybe it’s due to the lack of kids’ whirlwind of constant clutter and mess. Whatever momentum of cleaning I kept up during my 20’s and 30’s to keep some order in our home has fizzled out. The bunnies are allowed to multiply unfettered since I don’t have to wipe soda pop spray off the ceiling and door casings or vacuum baking flour out of the window sills and kitchen drawers. Don’t ask – true stories. Not to mention the seek-and-destroy missions of old to basset-hound out “that smell” which turned out to be baloney and cheese sandwiches with mayo a la mold which had been tossed over tiny shoulders behind the toy box in the basement. Another true story. And what mother can’t relate to being on hands and knees, scrub brush in hand scouring floor tiles, when the troops arrive after school with neighborhood reinforcements galloping muddy tracks to the fridge?
Maybe I need the fear of never being able to neuter all of those bunnies to spur me back into that long-lost momentum. Or….
If I could have Patty follow behind me and my dust rag one more time, I’m sure Ben would hand over the cleaning deposit no questions asked.
