I love housework. No, I'm serious: housework really does rule. And before you start tutting and shaking your head, I'm by no means your stereotypical suburban housewife. For one thing, I'm a writer, and everyone knows that writers are eccentric. I'm also a perfectionist, and if there's one thing I enjoy, it's cleaning house. Now, a lot of my friends employ cleaners, and some of them have suggested that I, as a gainfully-employed 21st century woman, might do the same; after all, I'm a homeowner, I have a cat, and a husband, etc. etc.
I did consider it - but I can tell you right now what would happen: the minute the cleaner's car pulled out of my driveway I'd be retracing her steps with a duster and mop. You see, nobody cleans my house quite like me. They miss spots. They move stuff and don't put it back properly. They do a half-assed job. There's cat fluff in the corner of the sofa: I can see it! There are crumbs under the stove! And the fridge - don't even talk to me about the state of the fridge. And my antique crystal decanter - a family heirloom, mind you - has been moved half an inch to the left.
No, I won't be hiring a cleaner any time soon. Cleaning my house just makes me so happy. It's also really useful vis-a-vis the writing process. You have no idea how many thorny plot problems I've resolved while dusting. It's like, a meditative writer's tool. No, wait: it's The Zen of Housework. Almost, but not quite, as fulfilling as writing itself.
N.B.: I stole borrowed the graphic above from 50s Housewife. Her blog is great - go check it out!
No comments:
Post a Comment