Dust and Grime Monopolize My Time : Confessions of a Homekeeper

I’ve got a kitchen floor that needs scrubbing.
It's been on my to do list since last week.
I wish I was less concerned about it, but I was traumatized into clean by my father at an early age. He harbored these anti-deluvian ideas of what was expected from a marriable young woman and homekeeping skills were required. And he was a ball buster about them too. Sometime around the age of 10, after being asked by my mother to clean my room, and procrastinating, my father stepped in and demanded that it be done by the day’s end. I did what I believed to be a fine job and Mum seemed okay with it.

That satisfaction was short lived.

After I had gone to bed that Saturday night, I was roused by the blinding, sudden flick of the ceiling light being turned on, while my father demanded that I get out of bed and explain myself.

Explain what? I cleaned my room.....mostly.

He then ordered the opening of each desk drawer. Had I been conscious of the F word back then, I would have surely (at least in my internal dialogue) screamed it, because I knew I was caught dead to rights. As soon as he reached for the knob to open the top drawer, papers virtually leapt out greet him. That, was quickly followed by him overturning aforementioned desk drawer in the middle of the floor, with the shouted request that the entire desk be cleaned within one hour, when there would be a second inspection.

I was startled and scared shitless, but needless to say, the mission was accomplished in 59 minutes as I awaited perched on the edge of my bed, in my jammies, for a secondary inspection.

One hour and four minutes later, again he opened the desk, and though not perfect, by the time he'd reached the last of seven drawers, he had grunted a tacit approval.
I held my breath hoping he’d go away and let me return to those lovely dreams where I sang and danced with the Partridge Family. He turned and was about to leave when, out of the corner of his eye, noticed something sticking out from the rug.

When he pulled it back that funky purple shag carpeting, there appeared the odd bits of dust and stuff that accumulates from carpets bereft of padding.

Shouting! Take Two.

The new demand was the shag rug, which covered all but a five inch perimeter around the room, be lifted and the wooden floor beneath thoroughly swept before I would get any sleep that night.

By then it was after 11 pm and Mom stepped in with her disapproving David why do you have to play the evil dictator tone, but it was too late. The house was in an uproar with the dog at the bottom of the steps wondering what the hell was happening on the one floor where he wasn’t allowed. Dad was yelling, I was wailing, replete with crocodile tears plummeting down my chubby cheeks and Mum exasperated with trying to pacify us both.


At the time, I thought it was evil, torture, tantamount to child abuse. But that moment changed my life, and whether dorm room at Temple or shared apartment in Philly, my surroundings have remained, if not always immaculate, at least cleaned regularly and thoroughly.

I don’t blame Daddy. That was what he was taught.

I blame his mother.

My grandmother was a formidable woman. She could be your staunchest supporter or your worst nightmare; and with her family, often simultaneously. (There are those who will tell you I often channel her.) She was a fantastic cook, maker of the best spaghetti sauce, cream puffs and peach ice cream this side of the Mason Dixon line but when it came to home keeping she was an exacting tyrant. Even at the age of 80, she insisted on full seasonal cleanings which included, but was not limited to washing of walls, ceilings, woodwork, windows, Venetian blinds, window screens and cabinets, shelves, cupboards and household appliances.

I thought it was over the top, but as I’ve gotten older, what seemed OTT has become necessary. In a month’s time we’ll be yelling our annual battle cry, “the British are coming”, so the guest room and everything else from floor to ceiling needs attention.

I’m lucky though. The trial by fire and hard education on cleanliness assured that I knew how to do it. Outside of the of Martha Stewart wannabees, 20 and 30somethings are seemingly bereft of the knowledge of how to clean. How else can you explain the recent proliferation of shows like How Clean is Your House?, Mission Organization, Clean House and Perfect Housewife?

While for some, they serve as primers, for me they serve as a reminder that in a world full of dirty buggers, who let grill pans crust over, allow shedding animal hair to grow on carpets like an oversized Chia pet, and change sheets once a quarter, the best thing I can do for the great unwashed, is not be one of them.

And while stirring up the dust has set off my allergies on more than one occasion,it's a means to an end. And allergic reactions have lessened once I began eschewing chemicals for good old fashioned and non toxic mixes made with baking soda, powdered detergent, lemons, salt and vinegar. Yup, old fashioned, unpackaged, DIY cleaners that leave fresh and not chemical or overly deodorized scent behind. (If I want a scent, I'll light a Yankee Candle, Thank You.) And once I've finished, rooms have the aroma of air, everything seems brighter (including our entire and Coke collection occupying multiple shelves, dado railing and wall space in the kitchen.) And pristine results have convinced my husband to join in the tasks. Now that we've given a full spring cleaning to 75% of the house, there’s a tremendous sense of satisfaction in knowing that the house is not only tidy but deep cleaned.

So now instead of cleaning only on Saturday, I find myself wiping down kitchen cabinets, bathroom tile and Hoovering anytime I’ve 15 minutes to spare. Sure there's a downside. The cleaning rota, in addition to my gym schedule, means I'm so tired I'll never need a prescription for Lunesta . My lush friends have noted that I haven’t had time for a cocktail in nearly two weeks, and I spend more time searching for cleaning hints and ogling cleaning accessories in Home Trends catalogue that I do perusing fashion trends in Vogue.

Who cares! When I do collapse, I do so with the knowledge that there are no grime covered collectibles hovering around me or dust bunnies stalking me.

So armed with a duster specifically designed for cleaning ceiling fans and brushes created for cleaning the tracks of sliding shower doors, I remain vigilant against the onslaught of household grime. And though it's a dirty job, I take solace in knowing I’m just the broad to do it.