Confessions of a domestic goddess

Good news arrived in my High Point Village newsletter – Tuesday was No Housework Day.

Finally, someone invented a holiday I can really get behind.

My mom will tell anyone who will listen, every day is no housework day at our house.

That’s simply not true.

Daily, the dishwasher gets emptied and loaded. Sunday is laundry day. The fish tank gets scrubbed. When the trash is full we take it outside and on Monday nights we move it to the curb. We are excellent recyclers at our house. On many days the bed gets made. There are times when we iron. The bathrooms get cleaned on a semi-regular basis. The vacuum loves to chase after the dust bunnies periodically.

OK, a moment of clarification and confession. I find it soothing to lay on the floor in front of the fireplace or on a rare, sunny day, the back window. Call it a cat moment. It is in this prone state when I am most likely to come eye to eye with what is termed the dreaded dust bunny – that tumbleweed-like collection of dog hair, playfield grass and dust that turns a perfectly relaxing moment into a rush to the Oreck.

But, to quote my favorite journalism professor Miles Turnbull, I digress.

Easter is just around the corner and with plenty of company scheduled to arrive, there will be a flurry of cleaning activity – even dusting and maybe window washing.

We are not – and really this is not a “we thing,” it’s all about me – housekeepers.

My husband was, and still is, neat and tidy. His side of the bathroom, closet and car are much more organized and cleaner than mine.

However, he married the clutter queen. I’m getting better, or maybe like most addicts I’m in denial. I often toss things these days rather than rotate piles, especially of paper, from one place to the next. Admittedly, I did bring in some fresh items without getting rid of others.

I’ll admit everything is not in its place. Visitors do have to sidestep a shoe or bone. We’ve tried to teach the dog to pick up his toys and the kids to put away their shoes, but both usually cock their heads to the side and give us that “I’m-so-cute-what-are-you-talking-about” look.

We do not require anyone to take off their shoes at the door of our house. In fact, those who walk stocking-footed risk stepping into dog drippings. I know what you’re thinking, but this is a trail of water extending from the Labrador retriever’s bowl to his destination evenly distributed across the hardwood floor as his jowls empty along the way.

We’ve learned to live with it.

Our home is not a sty. We are seldom sick. We feel comfortable and happy there and our cleaning habits are not likely to be changing.

I will not be on my hands and knees scouring the floors anytime soon. I’m pretty sure we don’t own bleach or ammonia and if we do I certainly haven’t used them. I don’t have a secret recipe for getting the water spots off the shower glass. Please don’t ask when I last cleaned by dishwasher or my washing machine. I know people who do these things. I am not one of them. I don’t vacuum my curtains. I don’t steam-clean my rugs. I don’t wipe down the walls. I have never scrubbed the brick on the fireplace.

Here’s the biggest admission of all – it doesn’t bother me.

My days are full. I could make time for housework, but it’s not a priority. Housework didn’t get done when I was a stay-at-home mom. Instead we were going for strolls to the park, visiting friends at story time, reading books and playing in the sun. We own our house, our house doesn’t own us.

Kudos to my mom and the others who can get the job done. I just didn’t inherit that gene.

For those who missed it Tuesday, I’m sure no one would object to celebrating today, or Thursday, or April 20. Put up your feet, watch the dust settle, let the dishes pile up and breathe easy knowing I’m with you in spirit.

Take a walk on the wild side, hurray for No Housework Day.