[img]396|left|Alex Campbell||no_popup[/img] [Editor’s Note: Due to technical difficulties, Ms. Campbell’s Friday essay is being presented today in full. Her next essay will appear this coming Friday.]
I dislike cleaning my house.
It’s a job I avoid until the schmutz starts to be unbearable. The other day I noticed a thick layer of dust behind my printer. Then I saw that the tracks of kitty litter had spread too far to ignore.
I didn’t always shy away from housework.
When I was younger, I’d clean the house on a weekly basis. Every Saturday, you’d find me dusting, vacuuming and scrubbing till things shone. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become…not messier. I prefer to think I’m more relaxed. There are more important things in life than whether or not you can see your reflection in the drain stopper. Like social networking sites. And reality TV.
Cleaning my place is not an insurmountable task. I live in a studio apartment, all of 375 square feet. When I’m really focused, I can get my apartment company-ready in ten minutes. It’s the deeper cleaning that I dread.
I dust about twice a year; it’s my least favorite cleaning job. Perhaps it’s because I’m allergic to dust. You’re supposed to avoid your allergens, right? I avoid dusting so much that the dust bunnies under my dresser actually resemble dust Jackalopes. They’re so big, you have to wonder whether or not they’re real.
So Why Is My Radio Old?
In my bathroom there’s a small thread of dust that hangs from the ceiling. I glance up at it every once in awhile, amazed that it’s still there. Never do I take the broom that is kept in the very same room and swipe it away. It has a life of its own; I admire its resilience. Thread O’Dust and I have lived together for five years.
One time a kid came over to my house and remarked on my radio. “That radio is old!” she said. I looked at the radio, made after 1999. “Why do you say that?” I asked her. She replied, “Because it’s dusty.” Okay, time to get out the rag and the can of Pledge.
Whenever I dust, I have to put on a white mask—I look like I’m protecting myself from a SARS outbreak, not halfheartedly swiping a cloth around a few items in my house. After my mask is on, I remove things from surfaces; i.e., stuff things into drawers, never to be seen again. The other day I dusted about three surfaces, and then put things back. One of the items I returned to its place was a jar full of coins. I got distracted by the jar and decided that it was time to take a break from dusting and roll coins.
Rolling coins by hand is very therapeutic to me. Despite the fact that my house is cluttered with piles of papers and dust-a-lopes, I am extremely organized. I have a container on my shelf labeled “coins”. In it, there are coin wrappers for every type of coin, marked with my bank account number (you have to write the number on the wrapper before you put the coins in, otherwise it’s too bumpy). There are also zip close bags to hold the coins when I take them to the bank.
Thirteen Can Be a Lucky Number
I roll coins the same way every time. I dump all the coins on the coffee table and divide them into two piles—pennies on one side, all other coins on the other side. I take out the quarters and put them in the “laundry” jar. Extra points for bicentennial quarters. Those go in the “special coins” box (Like I said, I’m organized). Pennies that have “one cent” written on them instead of The Lincoln Memorial also go in the “special coins” box, like the one I got the other day from 1953. Canadian coins go in the trash; I have no interest in passing them off as American coins. The day I got distracted from my dusting, I raked in thirteen dollars and fifty cents.
After a relaxing session of coin rolling, I was ready to tackle my next task—vacuuming. However, the cat was sleeping, and I didn’t want to startle her. I couldn’t clean the bathroom because that’s where she was sleeping. I considered cleaning the kitchen. Ugh. I went into the kitchen, assessed the damage, and decided that instead of cleaning it, I would make a cup of tea and jot down notes for this essay. Ahhh…
Cleaning my place is best done in stages. Last week was Stage One. In the next stage, I’ll vacuum, and the whole place will seem a lot cleaner. And maybe I’ll shine up the mirror so I won’t have to look at my tiny reflection down the sink drain.
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at campbellalexandra@hotmail.com
