June 13, 2013

tonight after we made dinner I made Tyrone help me clean the apartment because it's dirty. Not like there's mud on the floor and garbage everywhere but dirty in the 'I'm totally neurotic about cleaning' way which means we go through this song and dance every week and a half or so.

When I was a little girl my mum and dad used to clean the house every Sunday. I don't even remember what they'd do beforehand, if they'd have a coffee or breakfast of hit up the bathroom or what, I just remember them cleaning the entire house.

My mum ran a daycare out of the house so I guess it made sense to do it before a bunch of smelly gross kids showed up to make the house dirty for the next five days but that didn't really occur to me as a kid.

I liked the smells of the furniture polish and the windex and liked to help because it meant that I got to touch all of my mum's special stuff on her dresser in the bedroom. She had all this silver stuff -mirrors and combs and brushes in a set that I loved for some reason.

Probably because I was a dumb kid and everything that I wasn't regularly allowed to touch was sacred.

My favourite part of helping my parents clean was the bathroom. I liked how the metal shined and especially cleaning the toilet bowl because the water was cold.



And yes I realize how gross that is in hindsight but my mum didn't and to my knowledge never has owned a toilet brush. That's just how she rolls.

I can see myself as this weird version of my ultra-clean parents as an adult now and it freaks me out sometimes because I realize not everyone is as neurotic as me.

Anyway now as a twentysomething I've basically become my mother in the sense that the minute I hone in on dirt or dust or balls of cat fur I get this itch to start cleaning and not stop until I've dusted, washed, swept and mopped every room.

It's especially tough because even though I make Tyrone help me to save time I secretly judge everything he does because I have very high standards and he spends a lot of the time we're cleaning talking to me or singing or showing me his bum and sometimes I just want to throw a lamp at him.

Today while I was cleaning the living room he came in and started vacuuming the rug because he likes to vacuum, apparently, and I wanted to say "you're messing up my system! I HAVE A SYSTEM IN THIS ROOM"

but I didn't because nobody wants to fight about who gets to vacuum the rug, right?

That might be crazier than making Tyrone help me clean the apartment every week and a half.

But only a little.