Dull women, clean houses, and tea

This morning I sat around drinking tea dressed for running for nearly an hour before finally dragging myself out the door. I knew it was going to be a miserable run. It takes atleast a mile before my brain will give in and quit complaining. The distance I ran was just enough to relieve my guilt but not to really enjoy the act of running.

My next chore was to make breakfast and then clean the house. Neither of which thrilled me. My sweet husband hangs around on weekend mornings like a hound dog. He looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, "What are you going to eat?" --translation, "feed me". Our breakfast was lovely and easy, nothing to complain about, really. After finishing I sat and drank more tea and thought about cleaning. Drinking tea is a wonderful way to put off doing what you don't want to do. You have to wait for the water to boil in the kettle and then of course steep and cool. To make a good cup of tea takes atleast 15 minutes. To drink it can take another ten.

Usually by Friday night my house is dreadful; dust bunnies, bits of paper, used coffee cups, toys, dirty clothes, and books were everywhere. The picking up is the worst part. There is so much stuff everywhere. The urge to simply throw everything in a large garbage bag and donate it to the closest Goodwill is overwhelming. Putting everything in its place, some place, any place really is the worst part of the chore. I actually like scrubbing--especially bathrooms. There is something gratifying about taking your paper towel or rag away from a surface and seeing it covered in hair and dust and grime.

Over the years I have decided that the act of cleaning the house requires a fine balance of action and procrastination sprinkled with needless distractions like Amazon.com and the New York Times. I can work in small bursts then I have to "rest" and feel sorry for myself. Usually these small breaks between tasks are topped off with coffee and pawing around on the internet or sorting through books or beads. By the end of my effort I am fooling myself by thinking, "Gee, this isn't so bad, maybe I don't need Rose to come after all!". Foolish notions of the domestically incompetent. I think my distaste for cleaning is genetic. My mother no longer cleans her house. My father has to do it so he doesn't go nuts. My grandmother passed down her kitchen plaque to me that said, "Dull women have immaculate houses." This is our bit of family gospel.

I wonder about the art of procrastination. Some people seem to perfect putting it off until the last minute driven by the adrenaline and hopelessness of it all. Others never ever procrastinate. They freeze casseroles for dinners weeks away, send birthday cards early, they even contact AAA before leaving for a trip to get one of those custom maps with the route highlighted. I wonder about those folks. Do they feel less stress? Is their life adventurous or is it like eating at Shoneys?
Next week when I am faced with a house covered in a patina of domestic filth perhaps I will regret not taking that dish down to the sink or picking up those dirty socks, but for now I think I will procrastinate some more, drink tea, and blog.