there's no place like home...where are my ruby slippers?

What do you get when you mix Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder with finding a toilet in your bedroom?

Oh, I dunno, shit for brains?

Behold the master bath:

The perils of remodeling.

Toto, I don't think all the Xanax in Kansas will get us through this...

a rose by any other name...

So my mom picked this little runt of a rose and sent it home with my kids a couple nights ago. When I saw it on the counter, I didn't hesitate to toss it right in the trash because I have a mental illness that forces me to keep all surfaces clean even if it means throwing away your precious belongings or my mom's paycheck. (Yes, that actually happened in high school.) Anyway, my kids noticed me giving the shrimpy little roseling the boot, and immediately intercepted. They asked if we had a vase to put it in, and I explained that since the rose was like 2.5 inches long, I doubted we had anything that would suffice. Leave it to my get-it-done-girl, Reilly, to find one, and I humored the kids by putting it in.

Cut to last night when I got home late, and was at the tail end of a panic attack rooted in a fear of being pulled over and arrested because I had had a glass of wine five hours earlier. As I set my keys down and began my nightly counter sweep, which I also do in the morning and midday, I saw this beautiful little engine-that-could rose staring up at me. Far be it from me to be connected to nature but it literally made me smile. This little fella was almost a goner and now it's brandished in a place of honour on my otherwise clean counter, making me ever-so-happy.

I planned to write, "Here is a rose my kids brought home," but, well, you all know me.

blockage

Saturdays have become the dustpan of my week, the day on which I attempt to take up the slack of neglected cleaning and schoolwork. I used to be very good at this, and had no trouble living up to my email address: lovetocleanup. For years I have sprung awake, turned on the painful-yet-motivating 80's pop, and shown this house who's boss. Later, when every surface was glistening and the smell of lemon-scented Lysol permeated the entire house, I would sit with Quinn and Reilly and tie up the loose ends of our school week. It was a wonderful routine, and I was the shining, lemon-scented star.

For reasons I do not know, I am currently suffering from the cleaner's version of writer's block. (As well as actual writer's block, as you are no doubt noticing.) I don't know where to start, or how to care. Our house has become Seussian in its disorder. We have lamps on amps (literally), 43-year-old boys with toys, Playmobil stables on tables, bags of rags, and the curtains are hurtin' for a cleaning. But I just can't. Everything is so precariously perched, it's impossible to wipe down a surface without sending 700 guitar magazines into the air. As most of you know, we are aiming to ditch this MFSH (mother-f-ing s*** hole) and get us some bigger, brighter digs this year. As such, I have completely disengaged from this house, except to hate it. Anyone can tell you that I am grossly exaggerating in every description, but that doesn't change the rage I feel when I see that Todd has stacked four amplifiers almost to the ceiling, or a week's worth of mail just as high, or that the kids have built an array of creations whose very survival dictates that they remain in our living room. I am also excessively fond of bags of shredded papers taking root by the laundry room door, every surface having become a veritable junk yard, and of course, the worthless leopard geckos who reside on my decorative table, looking smugly at me, knowing that the purpose of the table was to be bare. I could go on and on. Instead, I will try to re-channel my anger into productivity.

I'll start changing my email address to: whyshouldicleanthisfuckingplace.

Have a great weekend!

wanna get in my drawers?

B is my most fervent cheerleader, in all realms, and I am hers. This is especially true in matters of the home front. We encourage each other to forge ahead on days when we're dog tired and uninspired, and we have a wonderful reciprocity with grace for those times when it's just not happening. But mostly we keep each other going, and relish each others' successes.

Our primary method of mutual inspiration is our use of "challenges." When one or both of us is lagging, the other throws out a loving, creative, and clever challenge, proportional to what the other can reasonably handle in the moment. When B is out of coffee and the kids are sick and the dryer is melting all of their clothes, for instance, I would never challenge her to clean her whole house. But I would challenge her to spend a half an hour in her garden, rejuvenating. This was one of her challenges this morning, along with spending a half an hour cleaning something inside the house. In turn, she challenged me to study up on lapbooks and introduce them to Quinn, as well as clean one surface/cupboard/drawer that has been seriously neglected. (Yes even ocd mamas neglect some things.) I've posted before and after pics of the drawer I selected. Man it was grody.

Since we spend a lot of time in each other's homes, we can set awesome challenges with ease. B knows the top of my refrigerator is getting cluttered again, and will crack the whip on it, and I know that clean towels are becoming scarce at her house, and will challenge her to do a load of them right away. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not romanticizing these challenges. Sometimes they downright suck. This is particularly true when I've just sat down for my Lost reruns, or when I'm so tired my eyes are crossing, or when my ocd is flaring up and I'd sooner burn my f-ing house down than try to clean it. My least favorite challenge was to clean off our hillbilly white trash porch, and then paint it and wash down the back door. I'm still a little bitter, even though she did come over to help with the painting. My favorite challenge came last weekend when I was feeling sooo resentful and obstinate. She told me I had to put away 15 things, throw away 15 things, and wipe down 15 things. Sheer genius! I immediately made a list, and within one hour had crossed all 45 things off. My house still has a little sparkle from that one.

Uh oh, I'm getting dangerously close to a novella. Sorry guys. I could talk cleaning all day. Instead, I think I'll clean all day. B, this challenge took five minutes, got anything harder? (No painting please!)

Before:


After: