Published Jun 6, 2003
So today I cleaned part of the kitchen. Part of a whole new plan I’ve developed for myself to designate tasks around the house that I need to be doing and schedule them into free time that I’m not using to mellow out.
Now, when i was growing up, I didn’t really learn how to clean. Since as long as I can remember, my parents had someone to help out with the cleaning — reasonable since they both worked full-time. For pretty much my entire youth, until junior high or something, our maid was Charlene. I always found her skills to by mysterious and magical; I wasn’t the neatest, cleanest kid and that she could keep things clean, and make the kitchen floor slippery, and god save us, keep the hardwood floors shiny — clear signs of mythical abilities. My puny powers, in contrast, only involved the ability to mow the lawn, wash dishes, and often weasel out of taking out the trash.
Of course, filth was acceptable in college. Then, when I graduated, I got a job where they expected me to bill 40 hours by the end of Wednesday, so I didn’t have time to clean; I got a maid. And, when I moved and got my second job, I got another maid. And then, due to a run of bad luck involving a Palm Pilot, a burnt-out porch light and Las Vegas, I lost that maid. And then I had to keep things clean myself.
For two years, it’s been catch as catch can. And, frankly, every bit of the apartment’s just a little dirtier, just a little dustier, just a little dingier. That doesn’t sit well with me, especially since I have an incredibly wonderful and incredibly neat-and-clean girlfriend. And, now that I’ve grown up, now that I’m living on my own, I’ve given myself chores. Weekly chores. This week: the kitchen. I organized my oils and vinegars, my spices and a cabinet; I cleaned every inch of the stove; and I even turned the toaster upside-down and shook out all the years of crumbs. Mmmm crumbs.