Usually, our home runs like a well-oiled machine. Or it did, until #6 was born. But I don’t blame him personally, because he’s the only person in the house under the age of ten who I seem to get along with on a daily basis. But it’s safe to say that having a new infant in the house has (temporarily ) derailed what was once a carefully coordinated household effort.
So I spent some time earlier today trying to “analyze and troubleshoot my productivity efforts within the domestic realm in order to revitalize industry and redouble efficiency standards.”
You know. Thinking about why I can’t get stuff done lately. And how I need to start getting more stuff done.
I do accomplish a remarkable amount of “stuff” each day; most of the time our house actually looks quite clean and presentable, meals are cooked, laundry is laundered. People are often surprised by that, given how many kids we have.
(Crap. Now I’ve done it. Now that I’ve said that, one of you will end up coming by on a day when it’s messy, and I’ll see you through the mailbox slot and panic…
…and I’ll of course let you in, and swear that it doesn’t usually look like this, & apologize for the mess. And you’ll say, “no, it’s cleaner than my house!” to make me feel better- ’cause don’t we all say that?- but on the inside, you’ll think I’m a hypocrite. Damn it.)
But in assessing my methods today, I came to realize that I have some… quirks. Let me clarify that; I have some little household quirks.
(Of course, I have numerous non-specific quirks as well. In fact, one of them is probably my ease in sharing odd, irrelevant facts about myself with the general public. You’re welcome.)
So, household quirks… here are my Big Three Quirks of Shame.
#1: The Dishwasher’s “Things That Have No Place.”
The dishwasher needs to be unloaded. First of all, this is the most annoying six minutes of my day (does it really take six minutes, you ask? Maybe. Sounds about right, no?). I’m inevitably sloshed with dirty crumb-filled water from a cup that someone didn’t turn over. At least three spoons will be crusted in some food remnant and need rewashing. But the real quirk? I…must…leave…things…behind.
Not sure why. No matter how small or large the dishload, there are inevitably a few items left behind to enjoy the thrill of another wash cycle. Things such as: Thermos. Tupperware caps. A baby bottle cap. An extra cat bowl.
In my psyche, they are deemed unworthy of joining their mates in the cabinets; instead, they are doomed to a life of endless dishwasher scouring.
Helpful Hint: If you want some coffee-to-go from my house, pour it into one of our Thermos. They are by far the cleanest containers in the house.
#2: Vacuum Cords- Left Behind
I actually enjoy vacuuming, and do it at least every other day. Not compulsively, just because it’s required in a house with this many people. I’m also a thorough, move-the-furniture type of vacuumer.
Once I’m done vacuuming, our relationship ends there. I will leave the vacuum, cord still snaking across the room, and resume other activities. Now, of course, I unplug it as a safety precaution. I DO want to protect my children from the risk of electrocution; yet, apparently I am unbothered by the prospect of them tearing into the room at breakneck speed and, stumbling frantically over my improvised tripwire, hurtling their tiny bodies into the couch.
And I’ll have you know that each and every time that this occurs, The Captain will neatly recoil the wire and put the vacuum back into place. Now granted, he LOATHES the displaced cord…mayybbbe because he’s also had to repair the cord after I’ve run over it with the vacuum… twice now… but despite his feelings, he never says a word.
Now that’s love, baby! But lest you think I’m the only one with household quirks, I’ll have you know that I never say a word when The Captain hangs his laundered clothes on hangers from our bedroom curtain rods… even though I could melt with rage. I don’t say anything, because I love him. Well, technically I just said something about it now, to you, but that’s not the same thing, right? Even though the closet HAS ROOM and is mere FEET AWAY?? But, like I said, love. LOVEEEE.
#3: The Fridge Denial
I’m optimistic that they will make it this week.
Oook. This one’s rough. I can feel your judgment already. It’s borderline repulsive, both economically, and probably… sanitarily speaking, but that’s why it’s a quirk, people! So, the meat denial game. This happens maybe once a month. Here’s the deal.
I carefully plan out our menu each week, via computer program, based on the current store sales. Imagine NASA engineering software, if you will, only with inventory lists of “chicken nuggets” instead of, say, “rocket propulsion thermoblastic hydropons”. Almost the same, right? After careful planning and purchasing, said groceries are stored and used according to the week’s prescribed meal plans….
Unless, of course, something, like LIFE, interferes. Maybe I change it up a little. Maybe we grab a pizza instead. The meat for that missed meal remains unused, and remains on that bottom shelf.
And maybe the next night, I forget about the chicken. I opt for perhaps London broil instead. Do you see where this is going yet? Stay with me…
Day 1: The package of meat, to my shame, expires. I pull it out, note the date is yesterday. I think, hmm.. questionable…. Then I…
PUT IT BACK IN THE FRIDGE.
Because, you know, I paid good money for it. It’d be a shame to throw it away, right? Better make sure I’m POSITIVE I don’t want to waste it. Maybe I’ll use it. Really.
(I don’t. Ever.)
Day 2: I pull it out, and check it again. Is the meat too brown? Does it smell? What SHOULD it smell like, anyway? Why can’t I smell anything?? Damn allergies. Nope. Better not chance it. I feel bad. Back in you go, now useless meat. I love you.
Day 3: Meat is thrown out. It is put into garbage upside down, so I can’t witness the blasphemy I have just committed. There are starving children in Africa, The Captain works endlessly to provide for his family, and I have tossed at least $6-8 bucks a month on … guilty proscrastination. Self-hatred ensues.
Don’t judge me. I blame The Captain, anyway- I was a vegetarian until he corrupted me with his evil ways. And his amazing chicken cutlets.
Far from perfect, but I know that despite these flaws, the rest of the tasks before me are done impressively well. And after this full disclosure, there’s nothing to hide.
Except the dryer lint. Don’t even ask….
© Copyright 2013 Six Pack Mom, All rights Reserved. Written For: Six Pack Mom