I hate the term ‘housewife’. It’s like you’re married to the house. But I guess that’s what I am. Married to the house, I mean.
At least the house doesn’t make any demands on you. It stays quiet even if you haven’t cleaned it for six months. It doesn’t complain even if the laundry pile threatens to spread from the bedroom to the back porch. Or the kitchen has collected enough dirt to make the cockroaches think your dining table is the garden patch.
No, the house doesn’t grumble when it’s dirty. It’s the occupants that can get on your nerves. But I don’t want to talk about that now. Today I want to tell you about my housekeeping woes.
I keep the house reasonably tidy. I like to have places for things and am quite fanatical about keeping each thing in its own little nook—like books which I collect. I know it looks as though they’re all over the house. There’s one on the dining table now, Sala’s Gift which I’m half-way through. There are a few in the little corner where I spend long hours reading. And I have several on my nightstand. Knowing where things are kept is important to me. I want to be able to put my hand out and even in the dark could get the item I wanted.
Don’t you get upset when you’re forced to waste time looking for something someone has misplaced? I get mad when I needed the nail-clipper for three seconds but I had to spend one hour hunting for the tool. And if it were Mr. Hubby, the house would be topsy-turvy when he has done looking for his lost/misplaced gadgets and he won’t even make the house right again.
Yes, I try to keep things in their designated places but keeping the house clean is another matter. Actually, I didn’t realize that I was slacking in this department until one day, a long time ago when I was juggling home, kids and school. I told the children to tidy up and help me clean the house and my son asked—quite innocently—“Why? Who’s coming?”
It was as though you only cleaned your house when you were expecting company!
It also doesn’t help if you’re very fastidious and you keep your home spotless six days of the week but your blabber-mouthed friend turns up on the seventh day.
I have one such friend. One day, out of the blue, Friend called to say she was coming over. I can’t recall now whether she wanted to borrow a skirt or the lawn-mower. Anyway, I was frantic! My reputation was at stake! The kitchen floor was all icky and filthy—you know how it is when you do a lot of frying. I had no choice but to scrub the tiles clean so I could avoid getting the Laziest Housewife Award.
During the short time it took for my busy-body friend to drive to my place, I had turned my dirty floor so clean I could serve tea and cakes on the tiles.
“Oh! Wow!” Friend said, rubbing her sole on the tiles (as I knew she would). “Your floor is cleaner than mine!”
There’s nothing like a blabbermouth to keep a housewife’s floor clean. While she was complimenting me on my housewifely attributes, I was already planning to pay her a visit. Not on the six days when her house is immaculate, but on the seventh day.
Will I warn her with a phone call, you say? Why, of course! As soon as I’ve reached her gate. Cheers!
Pics from Google Images