I have to admit it, I don’t like to clean.  I think maybe I inherited this from my mom who didn’t seem to like cleaning either.  It’s probably that I am missing the correct gene – cleanastisine 409. 

 On the other hand, I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t like to clean.  At our house we have these conditions which John calls “forcing functions.”  These are events, like having people over, that make you do the things you’ve been putting off.  They are usually proceeded by my saying, “Oh, my god, we can’t have the [insert name of some friends] over for a barbecue unless we get new cushions for the deck furniture, trim the vegetation, clean the grill thoroughly, sweep the deck, etc!”

One of the ongoing forcing functions, and I suppose you’ll think this is silly, is having somebody come clean for you.  I can remember on the occasions when my mom would have someone in to clean, she would be like a banshee yelling at us to pick up and she would go about hiding all the rubbish that had been collecting for the last two weeks.  My kids will identify with this.  Whether it was Virginia (N.C. first time), Lydia and Virginia (N.C. second time) or Magda (California), the day that the cleaning person was coming I was rousting them out of bed and yelling for them to straighten up their rooms while I zoomed around downstairs trying to make it look like we are always neat.  I’ve wondered from time to time whether it’s actually worth it to have someone come clean.  It’s always such a trauma.

So today, I got a call from Guy, the guy who cleans windows here in Utah that he can come at 9 AM today to wash the windows.  John’s off playing tennis so I’ve got 45 minutes to get ready.  “What if Guy sees that I have my teacup in the sink?”, “What if Guy sees that the countertops are not completely shiny?” (By the way, I’ve just gotten a reprieve until 10 AM.)

God, sometimes I wish I weren’t so neurotic!

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