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I'm just a bystander in the war on dust
By Jennifer M. Latzke My mother lays awake at night wondering where she went wrong. My sister swears that she and I can't possibly share the same bloodline. You see, unlike the rest of the women in my family I don't consider ordinary household dust to be an enemy combatant. I will leave dishes in the sink for more than a day without anguish, and I regularly refuse to make my bed in the morning. So fire off a cannon and call me a rebel. Look, I live a busy life of work and outside activities that make my life an enjoyable one. Frankly, I'd rather spend my evenings doing something more meaningful than fussing over my hall closet's clutter. What is the point of pouring all of my energy and time into a spotless house, when, in doing so, I alienate the friends who would come over an enjoy it with me? Repeat after me: There is more to living than a spotless living room. I do have standards, though--give me a little credit. I may be a little lax in waging a war against dust bunnies, and I tend to pile magazines and mail on a shelf by my door--but my house is clean where it counts. I don't live in absolute disarray, I just pick and choose which battles I will wage in my own home, that's all. A pile of catalogs by the door is tolerable, a dirty kitchen counter is not. I blame my adult attitude about cleaning to the endless Saturdays I spent as a kid helping my mother clean house with my sister. Every Saturday, whether it needed it or not, the entire house was cleaned and ready for the following week--top to bottom, inside and out. Usually, this was an all-day affair and one in which only the women participated--my father and brother having more important things to do outside, in the fresh air and sunlight. Did I mention I hated Saturdays as a kid? Usually, those days began with Mom shaking me out of bed and putting me to work on the chores with the high "icky" factor. I was the youngest and as such I was the garbage collector and designated odd-job-doer. One of Mom's favorite odd tasks to hand off to me was to dust all of the lower parts of any furniture in the house--chair rungs, table legs, and bottom shelves. I have never completely understood why Mom insisted these parts be dusted and polished. Really, who looks at a chair rung? And, every week like clockwork, you could time the fights between my sister and myself over whose turn it really was to clean the bathroom, and set your watch by Mom's all-out hissy fit with over the status of my closet. The day usually ended with me holed up in my bedroom pretending to get some cleaning done, when in actuality I was catching up on my reading. The best strategy then and now in dealing with Mom and Joni in a cleaning jag is to lay low and take cover. Ironically, my sister Joni, a clutterbug in her younger days, was the first to turn into a neatnik the minute she moved away from home. She went a step beyond just cleaning her house like Mom, though. She became an organization junkie. Everything has its own box/shelf/folder/drawer/etc., and is labeled and cross-referenced in a master list. Ask her for a manual to a household appliance and she'll whip out a three-ring binder with color-coded tabs according to each room in the house. It's beyond scary. Even our mother thinks she's created a monster in Joni--an accomplishment to be sure. I will probably never be as together as my sister, and I doubt the housekeeping urges passed on through my mother's bloodline will grow on me ever. Mom and Joni will have to accept it. Because, if it's a choice between doing dishes or experiencing life, well, I'll choose living every time. Jennifer Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com . Date: 8/31/04
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