Unclean

Yesterday, at around 11:30 AM, I experienced a moment of complete and utter self-revulsion. It was prompted by the State of My Floors. The hardwoods on the first floor of my house are a bit scratched and worn; that is not the problem. The problem starts with the good half-inch of dog hair with which they are constantly padded, and continues to the formerly fluffy area rugs that dot their surface -- once a bargaining tool for the home's former owners ("we'll leave you these pretty things if you let us slide on the poisonous radon...") they're now matted and stained with a year's worth of apple juice and pug dribbles.

How often do you all clean your floors? Because we just can't seem to be bothered with it. I could count on my fingers how often I've mopped since we moved in. And the vacuum... ohhhhh, the vacuum. See, it's just so heavy, and I have to drag it all the way up the stairs to do the second-floor carpet, and then I have to empty the damn cartridge, and that is why there is a dead moth carcass resting next to my foot right now as I type. I wish I were kidding.

I am the queen of picking up. I also excel at bringing order. I firmly believe that it is because of these two things that I am able to get away with being So Damn Filthy. I believe I have written about this here before, about how I basically change my sheets with the seasons and use the same hand towel until it becomes so stiff that it actually walks itself to the washing machine. It would be one thing if I were out-of-my-gourd busy and just didn't have time to worry about things like, you know, dust and mildew. But yesterday I found plenty of time to read a book for two hours, mess around on Facebook while listening to Car Talk, and play cards with my friends. Yes, I've got some work, and yes I'm raising my kid, but... I'm not that busy.

This morning I was taking a shower and noticed for the first time how disgusting our shower curtain had become. Its filth stood out, given that I had scrubbed the tub and tiles the day before, prompted by the aforementioned fit of self-revulsion. The liner was yellowed and dirty and the curtain itself had a long faded stain running its length, marking the spot where it rubbed against the tub. Clearly this was not an overnight thing; it must have been like this for awhile, and I had not even noticed. Not even a bit.

The thing is: I am not remotely interested in having a pristine home. Any house I live in will probably always boast mismatched furniture and stacks of half-read library books, will always invite people to describe it as looking "lived-in." I'm cool with that. But man. You can't, like, opt out of basic home hygiene. Unless you want mice and earwigs. Which I don't. If I lived with someone who gave two thoughts to the idea of cleanliness, it would help. As it is, my husband could assemble an entire week's wardrobe, including socks and undergarments, from the articles of clothing he has left strewn, crumbled, and/or stuffed in random locations throughout the house. He would describe this as absentminded habit. I would describe it as another reason I'm not disinfecting those countertops.

There are just so many things I'd rather do than clean. Plus, I'm not good at it. I get bored and abandon tasks half-finished. When Cletus gets old enough to do chores, she's going to realize that whatever she's scrubbing is the only clean thing in the house. We'll pass along our lack of household skills to her! She'll go to college with one set of linens to her name! Her freshman roommate, like mine, will have to leave notes reading "Empty me!" on their dorm room's overflowing trash can!

Or I could just hire a cleaning person twice a month and turn the shower of self-loathing into a veritable swim.