I was decidedly unenthusiastic about it at first. Cleaning means you are working, and working means you aren't lounging, and really, that's what I want to do
But too many slovenly weekends does not a domestic haven make. And in the end, I secretly kind of enjoyed the cleaning. Well, okay, I enjoyed the end result.
I'm in a much better mood when my house is in order. When the kitchen counters gleam and the dishwasher hums, when a few pairs of shoes are lined up neatly at the door, when our lone carpet is freshly vacuumed. Things are fresh and peaceful. It's a wonderful feeling.
But there are so many different ways to clean up, and the sad fact of the matter is... Kyle and I have different cleaning styles.
By that I really mean... things are actually clean when Kyle is finished with them. Things look clean when I'm done, but oh buddy. Don't go nebbing around after I'm finished "cleaning," okay?
I am an expert skimmer. I can make our house look tidy as a pin in about an hour (the inside at least... let's not talk about the tragedy that is my front porch and its rapidly buckling floorboards). Dusted, vacuumed, Swiffered, polished, blankets folded, beds made. After the surface is spit-shined and pretty, I am perfectly content to resume my position, prostrate on the couch with a book in my hand and a cup of coffee nearby.
But not Kyle. Noooooo.
His expertise is in deep cleaning and organizational tactics, which strike fear into my heart. He is less than impressed when I shove all of our junk into the storage cupboards on the third floor and declare our work finished, our house in order. This weekend, he wanted to sort through our mountains of clothes from approximately 2004, none of which fit us anymore. But which we are keeping, because, you know. Just in case.
This process combines several of my least favorite things to do: making decisions, getting rid of clothes, confronting my size 0 pants (they are really absurdly small, and yet I still remember worrying about "looking fat" in high school). LAUNDRY. Ugh, terrible, horrible, awful. By and large, no pun intended, I hate my old clothes... and yet I am very unwilling to give them up.
Mostly because I have to make decisions and do some laundry.Well, okay, Kyle does most of the laundry. But I have to help him fold the clothes, and find places to put them away. Poor me.
Have I mentioned before that our house consists of one relatively small walk-in closet?
The rest of these clothes have to go into our one dresser, or on shelves, or stashed away in an under-the-bed bag. Which should be for out-of-season clothes, but is really for just-a-smidge-too-tight-but-I'm-not-giving-up-on-them-yet clothes.
Goodwill will receive at least four trashbags full of size-0 pants (curse you, skinny girl who finds them!), 10,000 t-shirts, and these fabulous strappy heels I wore to high school homecoming but will never have occasion to wear again.
Kyle is parting with a lot of extra apparel too.
Our house is almost entirely clean and presentable now now.
Other than the guest bedroom, a holding station for the things we still can't decide on. And the basement, a depot for our of junky seasonal decorations and other knickknacks which, thanks to a lifelong fear of spiders and basements, I'm now terrified to touch. And our creaking, cracky front porch (putting our best face forward, you know?)
Once we've dealt with these few lingering issues, I'll provide photographic evidence of our House of Dreams in all its glory. (As a testament to my fear and loathing of this whole process, as I tried to type out "dealt" in that last sentence, I accidentally typed "death").
Spring cleaning, yinz. This stuff is no joke.