Anyone who really knows me knows how much I hate housework. I'd rather be doing almost anything else. Grocery shopping at Wal-Mart. Grooming a hedgehog. Grooming a hedge.
To paraphrase the late Laurie Colwin, housework is a kind of Mobius strip. You no sooner finish it, than it needs to be done all over again. Surely I was put on this earth to serve a higher purpose.
Of course, if someone doesn't clean every once in a while, a pit of filth will be the inevitable result. Thankfully, I have a wonderful husband who keeps our home reasonably clean and sanitary. Though I know he is probably thinking, "Would it kill you to run the vacuum every now and then?"
To be fair, I don't think he should have to do the housecleaning, either. I really don't.
And we can't afford a maid.
Somewhere, I believe, there is a Housework Fairy who is going to come to my home and magically clean everything--hopefully without my actually noticing her presence, therefore removing the need to thank her for her services. Sort of like those elves who made all the shoes for the shoemaker overnight.
Please, don't get me wrong. I admire anyone who keeps a lovely house. It is becoming a lost art. I have a friend whose home is always welcoming, shiny and uncluttered. Even though I sometimes teasingly call her "Martha," I wish I could be like her. I've tried. Only to find myself sitting on the floor, reading instead of dusting.
And as we all know, wishing doesn't make it so.
I do have some questions, however. Such as: Why does she not despise cleaning? How does she keep up with it all? And better yet, why are we so different? Is it a genetic thing? A Zen thing? Or am I just lazy?
(I think I'm just lazy).
And so, my friends, I will leave you with the above image, and leave you to your own housecleaning.
I'll be surfing the 'net, or one of the other three million time-wasters I'd rather do than clean the house.
Have a happy and safe Fourth of July,