One night last week Sarah complained about the state of our powder room toilet. I couldn't argue with her assessment; I've been busy lately. While I did scrub the sink recently, I didn't bother with the toilet, and was looking slightly unsavory, with an unappealing dark halo at the waterline.
I decided it was time for Sarah to learn how to clean a toilet. She is extremely competent in every respect; a crack babysitter, she can get Sacha fed, bathed and to bed and still have time to read before we get home. I don't intend for my children to leave this house without knowing how to change a light bulb, or make ice.
And so over the weekend we had a date with the porcelain god, during which I introduced her to the rudiments of scrubbing and swishing. Now, Sarah is ready to host a dinner party, where her guests will be assured a delicious meal, and a sparkling bathroom.
And next time, she will think twice before criticizing my housekeeping skills.
Showing posts with label housekeeping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label housekeeping. Show all posts
13 October 2010
19 February 2010
Cricket
This morning as I swept the kitchen debris into a dustpan, I saw something skitter. When my heart resumed its normal rhythm, I looked down and saw a cricket lying belly up among the bread crumbs.
I have a generally laissez-faire attitude toward insects; it's their world as much as ours, and knowing nothing of mortgages and property taxes, I can't blame them their desire to co-habitate. I share my bedroom with a colony of ladybugs, and if, while cleaning, I find spiders in the corners of the rooms, I gently disassemble their webs, knowing they will rebuild, or if the weather is not too nasty, escort them outside.
But this cricket scared the shit out of me. Crickets are greasy and disease ridden, and have a penchant for eating organic material, including their own dead. As if that were not enough, they can jump. High.But seeing as this one was already dying, and I am generally squeamish about the sound of crunching exoskeleton, I had neither the heart, nor the guts, to kill it.
And so, I made the most logical next move. I retrieved my phone to snap a picture to send to David. In the few seconds I was away, my nearly dead friend mustered his remaining life force, and when I returned, THE CRICKET WAS NOT IN THE DUSTPAN.
Thus began my panicked hunt for one brown cricket covered in a thin film of gray dust, somewhere at large, on my brown kitchen floor. A quick scan revealed nothing, as did a closer look on hands and knees. By now I had a paranoid, shuddery feeling that I could, at any moment, be jumped by a mostly dead cricket.
Almost as soon as it began, he reappeared a few feet away. I took my photo, wrapped the cricket in a paper towel, and deposited him in the trash. And although the bag wasn't quite full, unwilling to take another chance, I sealed it tight and took it out immediately.
I have a generally laissez-faire attitude toward insects; it's their world as much as ours, and knowing nothing of mortgages and property taxes, I can't blame them their desire to co-habitate. I share my bedroom with a colony of ladybugs, and if, while cleaning, I find spiders in the corners of the rooms, I gently disassemble their webs, knowing they will rebuild, or if the weather is not too nasty, escort them outside.
But this cricket scared the shit out of me. Crickets are greasy and disease ridden, and have a penchant for eating organic material, including their own dead. As if that were not enough, they can jump. High.But seeing as this one was already dying, and I am generally squeamish about the sound of crunching exoskeleton, I had neither the heart, nor the guts, to kill it.
And so, I made the most logical next move. I retrieved my phone to snap a picture to send to David. In the few seconds I was away, my nearly dead friend mustered his remaining life force, and when I returned, THE CRICKET WAS NOT IN THE DUSTPAN.
Thus began my panicked hunt for one brown cricket covered in a thin film of gray dust, somewhere at large, on my brown kitchen floor. A quick scan revealed nothing, as did a closer look on hands and knees. By now I had a paranoid, shuddery feeling that I could, at any moment, be jumped by a mostly dead cricket.
Almost as soon as it began, he reappeared a few feet away. I took my photo, wrapped the cricket in a paper towel, and deposited him in the trash. And although the bag wasn't quite full, unwilling to take another chance, I sealed it tight and took it out immediately.
17 November 2009
Women are awesome
Depending on your perspective, two weeks ago from Saturday I reached either the nadir or the zenith of my bout of swine flu — I've decided to refer to it as swine flu from here on in, because it sounds so medieval — when my fever climbed to 104 degrees.
I was of no use to anyone, and may actually have been delirious, and by 4pm I was fixated not on my fever, but the fact that by my admittedly irrational standards the house was a mess, we hadn't unpacked from our trip, the sheets needed changing, and I was useless to do anything about it.
David took the kids out so I could sleep, and after stewing in my juices for a bit, I made a very wise decision to call in the big guns, namely, my friends, Cassie and Sharon. Within twenty minutes they were at my house, armed with shop masks, bandannas and gloves, and they cleaned my house. They fetched me medicine, and beverages. They straightened, recycled and dusted, and if that were not enough, they scrubbed my bathroom.
If that's not love, what is?
One thing that multiple bouts of depression and childbirth have taught me is that when help is offered, SAY YES. From there, I sent out a second series of distress signals: SEND FOOD, and from that point forward, my family was well provisioned for the remainder of my illness.
Between that, and my mother providing child care and laundry services while David was at work, I had a domestic army at my service, and it was not only a great relief, but an awesome thing to behold; when women mobilize, they are a force to be reckoned with.
And although he is not a woman, I also have to thank David for holding down the fort in my absence, and for having the wisdom, upon coming home to a SWAT team cleaning his house, having the good sense to be relieved and grateful, rather than defensive.
Pranams to everyone.
I was of no use to anyone, and may actually have been delirious, and by 4pm I was fixated not on my fever, but the fact that by my admittedly irrational standards the house was a mess, we hadn't unpacked from our trip, the sheets needed changing, and I was useless to do anything about it.
David took the kids out so I could sleep, and after stewing in my juices for a bit, I made a very wise decision to call in the big guns, namely, my friends, Cassie and Sharon. Within twenty minutes they were at my house, armed with shop masks, bandannas and gloves, and they cleaned my house. They fetched me medicine, and beverages. They straightened, recycled and dusted, and if that were not enough, they scrubbed my bathroom.
If that's not love, what is?
One thing that multiple bouts of depression and childbirth have taught me is that when help is offered, SAY YES. From there, I sent out a second series of distress signals: SEND FOOD, and from that point forward, my family was well provisioned for the remainder of my illness.
Between that, and my mother providing child care and laundry services while David was at work, I had a domestic army at my service, and it was not only a great relief, but an awesome thing to behold; when women mobilize, they are a force to be reckoned with.
And although he is not a woman, I also have to thank David for holding down the fort in my absence, and for having the wisdom, upon coming home to a SWAT team cleaning his house, having the good sense to be relieved and grateful, rather than defensive.
Pranams to everyone.
19 October 2009
Fighting words
My children have all been great dumpers and tossers of things. The basic recipe goes something like: upend one tin of blocks, add a generous amount of Legos, and a smattering of cars. Using your hands, mix well until ingredients are incorporated, and then repeat vigorously, until items are spread to the far corners of the house.
Sacha is by far, my most talented child in this respect, and I am waiting patiently for him to outgrow this phase.
In the meantime, because Iam a control freak have a low threshold for chaos, I spend a good amount of time sorting and returning things to their rightful places. This kind of routine busing of the house is so automatic to me that I do it unthinkingly, and without complaint.
The thing I cannot abide, however, is the flinging. Sacha walks in, sees pillows and blankets neatly arranged on the upholstery, and then methodically tosses everything to the floor. He stops to assess his work, and moves on to the den to do it again.
It is how my house goes, in under sixty seconds, from this:
to this:
It would be one thing if this happened in the course of play – say, making a fort – but the flinging appears to be an exercise in itself. More often than not, once the flinging is done, so is Sacha. His work is so deliberate that it is hard for me not to take it personally. It's as if he is certain that my insistence on placing pillows on the furniture is wrongheaded, and if he rearranges things often enough, eventually I will come to agree.
Or so I thought, until I walked in to the living room last weekend to find Sacha wrestling with a brown pillow, shouting, “YOU'RE GOING DOWN PILLOW, YOU'RE GOING DOWN!”
This gave me a different perspective. In hindsight, we often realize our tendency to personalize things that have nothing to do with us. I thought the flinging was about me, but now, I saw that it was the pillows, not me, that are Sacha's nemesis.
I'd like to say that this insight gave me new found tolerance for Sacha's idiosyncrisy, but that would be a baldfaced lie. It's still extremely annoying.
Sacha is by far, my most talented child in this respect, and I am waiting patiently for him to outgrow this phase.
In the meantime, because I
The thing I cannot abide, however, is the flinging. Sacha walks in, sees pillows and blankets neatly arranged on the upholstery, and then methodically tosses everything to the floor. He stops to assess his work, and moves on to the den to do it again.
It is how my house goes, in under sixty seconds, from this:
to this:
It would be one thing if this happened in the course of play – say, making a fort – but the flinging appears to be an exercise in itself. More often than not, once the flinging is done, so is Sacha. His work is so deliberate that it is hard for me not to take it personally. It's as if he is certain that my insistence on placing pillows on the furniture is wrongheaded, and if he rearranges things often enough, eventually I will come to agree.
Or so I thought, until I walked in to the living room last weekend to find Sacha wrestling with a brown pillow, shouting, “YOU'RE GOING DOWN PILLOW, YOU'RE GOING DOWN!”
This gave me a different perspective. In hindsight, we often realize our tendency to personalize things that have nothing to do with us. I thought the flinging was about me, but now, I saw that it was the pillows, not me, that are Sacha's nemesis.
I'd like to say that this insight gave me new found tolerance for Sacha's idiosyncrisy, but that would be a baldfaced lie. It's still extremely annoying.
16 July 2009
Domestic dispute
I recently took a big step forward in housekeeping, and freed myself from the tyranny of the dish drying rack.
Ever since we moved house almost two years ago, and were advised to clear everything from our kitchen counters for house showings, I have become slightly fascist about kitchen clutter. While our old house was on the market, it was a pain in the ass to go to the basement to retrieve the toaster, but there was something so serene about the empty expanse of kitchen counter.
When I set up my new kitchen, I did it with an eye toward keeping only what I use daily on the counters. Although it may make me seem like a shallow person, I am not afraid to admit that it gives me a thrill to see so much white (actually, almond, to be accurate) space.
The one thing I was not able to give up was the drying rack.
And yet, every time I walked into someone else's house where there was no drying rack, I was a bit awed. How did they do it? Surely the wooden spatulas cannot go in the dishwasher? To say nothing of the over sized items, the wineglasses, and the fragile, but attractive, and impressively inexpensive drinking glasses, that have been known to shatter when they jostle up against other items during the wash cycle?
Last month, I had a vision of me, sans dish rack. I mulled it over, and last week, I went for it. I put a hook on the side of the cabinet to hang a towel, which I lay on the counter for hand washed items. After washing the dishes, I dry and put them away, and hang my towel out of sight.
I cannot tell you how this small adjustment pleases me!
Last night, David revealed that he does not like this new arrangement.
He cleans up after dinner, and so while I have less clutter, he has more work, as he can no longer leave the dishes on the counter to dry overnight for me to put away in the morning.
My husband is highly accomplished domestically. He may have better maternal instincts than me, is an excellent cook, has no compunction about cleaning the bathrooms, or doing laundry. (He can't fold for shit, but I think this is a genetic flaw.)
So although I know it is unfair to lay a greater share of domestic responsibility at his feet becauseI am aesthetically controlling I have a highly refined aesthetic sensibility, as the one who spends more time at home, I decided that my vote counts twice, and so I'm afraid he's going to have to suck it up.
Thanks for understanding, love.
Ever since we moved house almost two years ago, and were advised to clear everything from our kitchen counters for house showings, I have become slightly fascist about kitchen clutter. While our old house was on the market, it was a pain in the ass to go to the basement to retrieve the toaster, but there was something so serene about the empty expanse of kitchen counter.
When I set up my new kitchen, I did it with an eye toward keeping only what I use daily on the counters. Although it may make me seem like a shallow person, I am not afraid to admit that it gives me a thrill to see so much white (actually, almond, to be accurate) space.
The one thing I was not able to give up was the drying rack.
And yet, every time I walked into someone else's house where there was no drying rack, I was a bit awed. How did they do it? Surely the wooden spatulas cannot go in the dishwasher? To say nothing of the over sized items, the wineglasses, and the fragile, but attractive, and impressively inexpensive drinking glasses, that have been known to shatter when they jostle up against other items during the wash cycle?
Last month, I had a vision of me, sans dish rack. I mulled it over, and last week, I went for it. I put a hook on the side of the cabinet to hang a towel, which I lay on the counter for hand washed items. After washing the dishes, I dry and put them away, and hang my towel out of sight.
I cannot tell you how this small adjustment pleases me!
Last night, David revealed that he does not like this new arrangement.
He cleans up after dinner, and so while I have less clutter, he has more work, as he can no longer leave the dishes on the counter to dry overnight for me to put away in the morning.
My husband is highly accomplished domestically. He may have better maternal instincts than me, is an excellent cook, has no compunction about cleaning the bathrooms, or doing laundry. (He can't fold for shit, but I think this is a genetic flaw.)
So although I know it is unfair to lay a greater share of domestic responsibility at his feet because
Thanks for understanding, love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)