It’s finally spring! Flowers bursting into color, sun shining, a toad in my sprinkler system, and…because the trees are budding, I can’t breathe. I’ve actually had to resort to my hate-able rescue inhaler, copped my Singulair from the doctor, and…as usual…I have a gig. And I’m in a panic, hoping I will be able to get my loopy little self through it with my voice intact. Neurotic that I am, I took my Mucinex, have used the neti and will again before I go. I’m sucking down the tea, will take a Singulair pre-gig and probably hit the inhaler once more if I’m feeling panicked. Tra, la, la, I usually go through this twice a year, once in the spring and once in the summer, and it runs about two weeks.
I grew up in New England, and despite my frequent yearnings for the warmth of the southland, I do admit I love to watch spring push and shove its way in. The bird songs change, the damp chill of mud season, crocuses and snowdrops pushing their way up, the grass greening, then forsythia and ornamental cherry trees, and suddenly it’s all lilacs and new green leaves. Everything is bright and clear, no haze yet…the stickiness of summer brings that.
Thus, every year, I am in a quandary: I get hit by El Spring Cleaning bug. The urge to make everything bright and shiny and throw away clutter and reorganize closets and buy new STUFF. But not everyone wants their STUFF to go away. And, of course, I find that breathing is a priority, and I don’t seem able to keep my seasonal allergies alone at bay without adding animal dander and dust mites, even with a cleaning mask.
My son burst into tears when I gently suggested that we go through his toys and books and decide which ones were too young for him and needed to be enjoyed by other children. Ever since he saw the movie “Toys” he thinks they have feelings. So I guess I’ll have to weed through them when I am at school and feign ignorance of the missing stuffs whereabouts. And the husband has several nests throughout the house…piled clothing in the bedroom, one whole end of the dining table with paper and work stuff, the entire garage, the entire basement, and two offices. Ironically, he complains he can’t find anything, but I digress.
I come OFF as untidy, but with allergies and gigs at war with my naturally tidy (though well buried) nature, what’s a gal to do, aside from hiring a cleaning person, who would probably be horrified and run screaming…? Besides, there is a certain joy one takes in cleaning ones own house. I am also of the opinion that it’s not really satisfying to clean a house until it gets past a certain point.
Then, I get neurotic. Make a mess and you shall die slowly and painfully. Leave a dish out? I’ll kill you. Rinse it and not wipe the water spots? I’ll kill you. Dump toys all over the floor after I’ve carefully put all the parts together and segregated them into boxes? I’ll kill you. Even the dog gets into the act. I clean up the yard and he is in a full on panic to get right out and start pooping. I can hear him whining and barking while I scoop, and the minute I let him out he goes at least twice. Granted, the dog could give a hoot if the place was a complete sty but the other offenders in the house should have more than a nodding acquaintance with the garbage. The husband, when he sees me cleaning, will on occasion, join in, but only on what I am cleaning at that exact moment instead of cleaning the thousand other things that need cleaning, like his aforementioned nests. I’d give him a list, but having done this, I call it the “honey don’t do” list because anything on the list might as well be a witnessed and notarized testament as to what will not get done, ever. I did, however, use the wives trick of getting him to start up the sprinklers. Otherwise known as doing everything and leaving the final step for him to mess with…
Sigh. I’d like to start now, but I think I have to go make myself more tea and prepare for tonight. Maybe I’ll make my own “honey do” list. For myself. And maybe organize a seminar on where the garbage can is and what goes in it…right now I am just enjoying not feeling like an elephant is on my chest.
