Keepin' It Clean

My mom worked full time, over-time, all the time, from the time I was about 3 weeks old until I was 14 when she retired. As a result, my formative years were spent under the guidance and tutelage of many mothers. My friends’ moms, the neighbor ladies, the women my mother worked with—I called them my ‘fairy godmothers.’ Many of these wonderful wonderful women were…how we say…obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive clean-freaks. I once saw a friend berated for leaving her shoes on the ground next to the closet door instead of tucking them inside the closet itself. “This place is a mess!” Her mother said as she entered the room. My eyes scanned the space to discover a perfectly made bed, neat drawers, closed, their contents concealed, and a desk where each paper was filed in folders placed perfectly at the top right corner. Finally, my eyes followed her mom’s to the carpeted floor where the two perfect squeaky-white sneakers awaited their final resting place in the closet. Huzzah.

I grew up in a mostly Italian neighborhood in South Jersey, where plastic furniture covers were not uncommon. As kids, we were often instructed not to “decorate the floor” with our toys and clothes. Before I even entered school, I could tell the difference between the fancy towels, and the towels I was allowed to dry my hands on. And God forbid a crumb found its way out of a kitchen. Many of us were not allowed to eat outside the kitchen. There were tons of rules about where and what was allowed to be consumed—not to mention by whom. For instance my dad was allowed to eat coffee-cake standing over the sink but my brother and I had to get a paper towel and sit at the counter. Popcorn was allowed in the living room but only on movie night, Sunday (and only because the cleaning lady came on Monday).

In the first years on my own I discovered that I’m a messy cook. I’ll confess I don’t always hang up my clothes right away. And some of my things land on the ground when I toss them at my hamper. But eventually, I always get around to cleaning…and cleaning…and cleaning… And herein the portal to crazytown lies. Recently, I’ve noticed an escalation in my obsessive behavior. I don’t know if it’s the recent move to cohabitate with my girlfriend, the nice new digs, or a severe case of creative deprivation (I’m going through an incredibly uninspired, uninspiring period right now)—but I have been obsessing. Crumbs give me rage. My own hair on the bathroom floor brings me to my knees with a Swiffer in hand. I’ve started emptying trash cans compulsively, re-washing ‘clean’ dishes, and Windexing EVERYTHING. I Windexed the floor last night. I washed base-boards last week. I scrubbed the tops of my cabinets with bleach and a scrub brush. And it never ends. Every single day, I track more and more dirt into the apartment. I cook all the time, so the stove is always in need of a wiping. And my lovely girlfriend came with a lovely cat—who, though lovely, sheds worse than I do. And so I clean.

Truthfully, the apartment looks fantastic. Every surface shines. The dishes sparkle. It smells like a little slice of citrus heaven. I should really take a chill pill and relax. I should direct this energy to something more productive, like my writing. And mellow out about the mess. This cool, calm point of view occurred to me recently, when I realized how serious my problem is. What awakened me from my phase of cleaning fury? Sheets. I put clean sheets on the bed. I’d rather not discuss what happened, or rather, what didn’t happen after that. And after 6 months of a long-distance relationship and only one month of cohabitating with my girlfriend, there’s no way my obsession with cleanliness should override my obsession with…well...dirtiness. Since then, I have of course made up for this horrible mix-up of priority, and I have of course been forgiven by my lady.

I have not yet forgiven myself though, for turning into a suburban, hetero, mother of 4 from the greater Cherry Hill area—all before I’ve seen my prime. I used to obsess over the minutia of my blogs. I used to pour over sentence structure for hours upon hours. Seriously, go back, take a look at some of the earlier work, it wreaks of OCD. My apartment, in those days, was a mess. Again, I think my priorities have skewed. I need to clean up my own act, and get my creative life in order. Maybe then I won’t feel the need to clean up my physical space so compulsively. Maybe I should teach all my fairy godmothers how to blog. I’d bet their husbands would thank me.