Cleaning House

I am up to my elbows in an elaborate concoction of cleaning supplies.

Not that I have mixed them in a cauldron.

No worries. Mrs. Wimp, our chem teacher at Kentucky Home showed us the effects of mixing bleach with assorted acid (or is it alkaline) solutions. Seems the entire point of the education at a girls' school in the south in the mid-sixties was to teach us how to do house wifely things. Or better, be able to instruct our cleaning women without blowing up the house.

Nor am I one of Macbeth's witches. Double, double toil and trouble. Although it would be great to wash that away. Far far away.

The task at hand is to rid my house of winter grime. Dust that seeped onto the baseboards spewed from radiators from another era. Bailey's short black hairs ... my long chestnut strands too for that matter ... that have hidden under the chest of drawers, under the sofa and behind the beds need to be whisked into the bowels of my trusty old bagless Hoover.

So I am doing what I typically do: procrastinate.

I know when I have tossed the last dust rag into the hamper that I will feel a sense of relief. Accomplishment.

But until then I ponder. Why has it been years since I had my very own housekeeper? Or at the very least, a cleaning service? What have I learned from the tedium of using Charlie's old cotton turtlenecks and teeshirts together with stained tea towels run amok?

I know I know.

Cleansing of past sins, memories, habits. The process, even though I dread it more than most anything in the civilized world, is rhythmic. Healing. In an an odd way satisfying. Purifying. The house. And well, me.

So up I go. Gather the rags and Bounty and Endust and Pledge and Dust Buster. Assemble them around me. And begin.

When the sun sets I will emerge with a spotless home ... and a clearer mind. At least for the time being!

Think I'll go pour a tall glass of icy lemonade. Cheers!