I think they are selling my apartment building. I received a letter from the building manager letting everyone know that they will be inspecting apartment units today in relation to mortgages and purchasers. Greeeat. Explains the rent hike. Anyway, in anticipation of this impromptu inspection, I felt the need to pick-up the apartment (as well as hide all digital cameras and expensive jewelry. One can never be too careful). After all, I don’t want people to know how I truly live. I come from a line of women whose houses are never clean enough. When company is expected, both my mother and my grandmother have been known to get on their knees to scrub the kitchen floor with a bucket of warm soapy water and a hand brush. This in the time of Swiffers and Mop-and-Glo. However, they are also the type of women to point out the areas they didn’t get to. The entire house can smell like Ajax and Lemon Pledge, and my grandmother will say, “Don’t mind the shower stall. I didn’t get to it.” As if the casual guest would have any reason to peek behind the shower curtain and become appalled by the state of her grout. This, however, is my legacy and I’m afraid I’m a bit brain-washed.
Let me make myself perfectly clear: I do not live in squalor. Trash does not pile up in corners, food is not left unattended, and I not share my space with mice or roaches. In fact, most bugs seem to come into my apartment to die which attracts spiders, but I can live with that. I do have a habit, however, of “letting things go.” Meaning, I don’t change my sheets every week. I allow my dishes to air dry and then leave them in the drain for a day or two. I don’t mop my floor or attend to my own shower stall grout regularly. I’m also in the habit of removing clothing after work or pulling pants straight from the dryer and laying them over the back of the futon to be hung up “later” only to have “later” be the following Wednesday. Dust bunnies become colonies under the bed which are visible upon entering the apartment as I don’t have a bed skirt. This “letting things go” happens most especially during the work week when I spend a good portion of my time outside of my rather small four-walled space. I always think, “I’ll get to it this weekend.” But then the weekend comes and, well, I don’t feel like getting to it. So by the time Monday comes, I look around and think, “What precisely did I do for the last forty-eight hours, if not this?” It is a conundrum.
This is mostly not a problem as I live alone in a small studio so will mostly meet friends out. No one needs to know how I live, and normally I get plenty of advance notice before a visitor is to arrive. (“Hello, Mom and Frank, the week of May 18th.”) However, two weeks ago, my car went kerplunk and DD brought me home.
“Hey, can I see the apartment?” She asked, excited to see about the space I continually gripe about. (You think you have to hear about it in this blog? Try working with me.)
At first, I was hesitant. It was Friday and since I was planning on laundering the sheets that night, I hadn’t made my bed. The detritus of a week's worth of Single Girl meals (California Pizza boxes, empty Arrowhead bottles, a recently washed recyclable milk bottle, etc.) were in the kitchen by the trash can to be brought downstairs. And, of course, the laundry to be hung up “later.” All of it was on full display. But I knew how much she wanted to see the space, so I relented. To ease my mind, she confessed that she couldn’t remember the last time she made her bed considering her husband works from home and sometimes still abed when she leaves for the day. Anyway, she wasn’t interested in my housecleaning skills, only in the space that I’m paying $875-soon-to-be-$930 a month for.
I don’t know why I’m so lazy or feel overwhelmed when I look at the mess I create little-by-little each day. Because it doesn’t take me long to make the apartment presentable. In fact, it takes approximately twenty-five minutes. How do I know this? Because that’s exactly how long it took me to straighten up this morning for the inspection. I started by putting away the dried dishes from the night before. Then made my bed. Then put all the lotions and what-not back into the space beneath the vanity in the bathroom. I grabbed the glass cleaner and a paper towel and wiped down the stove and the tiled kitchen counter tops. I washed out the sink. I threw out the dead Easter flowers from Monica and grabbed the hand-vac to suck up the fallen petals. I hung up the clothes. I Swiffered under the futon and the bed, and voila! Done. The last thing I did before leaving the apartment was to pull the shower curtain. I didn’t get to the grout. Luckily my grandmother isn’t present to tell them.
