I hate it when our drunk friends want to crash at our house on Friday nights. Not because we don’t have the room, or because I hate drunk people or I’m nervous that I’m going to forget that they’re there and walk out the next morning to make the coffee naked. No, it’s because by Friday night it looks like a nuclear bomb made up of shoes, underpants and Tupperware containers detonated my home.
You see, we’re not home much during the week and when we are it’s usually just to strip down, put on pjs, eat something and pass out. We then wake up and do it all again the next day, and are not fabulous about you know, cleaning up after ourselves as we go.
As a result, Saturday is MY personal holy day, the holy day of Clorox. Every Saturday morning husband wakes up, goes into the office for a few hours, and then proceeds to golf or work or go drinking or whatever to keep himself out of the house during nuclear containment.
Saturday is the day I clean.
If you think I sound crazy now, just you wait. It gets better. For one, I freaking enjoy it.
I love having the house to myself to survey, triage, and dive right in. I’ve been doing this a long time kittens, and have a complete and total method to my madness. Some weekends the place only needs an 6 effort on a scale to 10 to get it back to being livable. But some weekends, when I’m down on my hands and knees with scrub brushes attached to various parts of my body stinking of bleach and sweat and god knows what I’m scrubbing off the ground, those weekends I give it a 10.
And then we have a picnic on the floor in the living room. Because damn it, if the floors are clean enough to eat off of, we might as well.
Hubs has offered no less than 100 times to hire a “cleaning lady” so that I can relax and enjoy myself on the weekends. The very thought makes my eye twitch. When I contemplate that someone else might be responsible for using the “magic eraser” on my baseboards or fold my laundry, I break into a cold control freak sweat.
No, cleaning is my job. It’s my ME time.
I’m not a neat freak at all. Nor am I a germaphobe. I guess I just get some sort of sick satisfaction from taking the hot mess that my house becomes by the end of every week and pulling the princess routine on it to get it shiny and new and more fabulous than it ever imagined it could be.
Because my house has an imagination after all.
Now I know what you’re thinking so before you ask, no, I do not want to come over and clean your filthbucket of a home. My disgusting 5 day old Tupperware and my husband’s dirty socks I can handle. Yours will likely make me vomit.
And I don’t clean up vomit.
So really, you’ll end up worse off than you started.
See, told ya it gets crazier.