For reasons I cannot explain, I have become my mother. I suddenly want everything clean. Not my kind of clean where things look pretty decent, but oh my gosh do NOT move anything or the ugly truth will be revealed. OK, the ugly, dusty – perhaps gooey – truth.
A couple of days ago when wiping down the cooking stove, I had this sudden urge to scrub until things were really clean. Not just looking clean, but really, really, really clean.
The next thing I knew, the stove was pulled out, a bucket of hot water with spic and span was nearby, and scrubbing commenced. Before I went to bed, the stove was clean, as was the cabinet next to it and the floor under it.
It’s not that I never clean anything, but I very rarely clean anything thoroughly. Maybe this is a new turn in my life. It would not be a bad thing, at all. Other than the part where it’s exhausting. Good grief. No wonder 1950s housewives didn’t work outside the home. Keeping the house clean with other people messing it up would exhaust any human.
My theory at the moment is that if I can get it clean, that with only me messing it up, maybe I can keep it clean. Please don’t burst my bubble quite yet.