Neatness Sucks

I always thought I got my slovenly ways from my mother. After all, her motto seemed to be "Never waste a flat surface." That is, in our house there was never a flat surface that did not have something (often many somethings) piled on it. On top of which was usually dust.

From my father's side, I inherited a deep desire for order. Therefore, obviously, I am quite conflicted. It is my burden to bear, I suppose.

I grew up in that home; amid the piles of magazines and newspapers, the ever overflowing trash can, the clothes strewn about (especially, it seemed, in my bedroom)... torn between the doctrines of laissez-faire and absolute order. One doctrine was bound to lose. Since absolute order takes effort, it went quickly.

When I was living in a small (8 unit) apartment complex, there was a woman who was obsessively clean. Linda's apartment was always spotless, she waxed her kitchen floor daily, stripped and re-waxed it weekly, her husband was required to wipe the shower area dry after taking a shower. Dave (her husband) showered immediately upon coming home from work as a carpenter, put his clothes in the hamper, and was comfortable with it all.

When I visited their apartment, I always felt ill-at-ease. We had weekly parties (with keg) at that complex, most were in our apartment (mine and my first wife's, that is). It was convenient; we were on the first floor and more or less centrally located. My first wife was not fanatical about cleaning but the place was always neat and orderly. She did not panic when an ashtray or a beer was spilled, as Linda did. I like to think our apartment was inviting. We had only one party at Dave and Linda's. Linda would wipe an ashtray with a damp rag immediately after someone flicked ashes in it. I was not the only one feeling uncomfortable.

Why do I bring this up? Because Faye has been cleaning the house for several days now in anticipation of a visit by the exterminator company. In Florida, we fear termites more than alligators. You can see alligators. So we Floridians contract with termite services and tolerate annual inspection visits. These guys come in, nose around cabinets, nooks and crannies... anywhere there might be evidence of termite infestation. We, in turn, hope none is found. It means expense; for tenting the structure and for spending a few days away. Plus it means inconvenience. I dislike inconvenience.

But, invariably, the house is not clean and presentable when the inspection time rolls around and that means chaos and conflict between Faye and I. Fortunately, this too shall pass.