Housekeeping Made Easy Or Hazel I am Not

I don’t pretend anymore to be a good housekeeper. There was a time when I did.  Pretend being the operative word.  Don’t get me wrong. I do take a fair amount of pride in where I live.  Though while my various homes were not generally what I would call a “hovel”, I did try to take advantage of dirt-concealing Oriental rugs and lots of artfully placed curiosities to confuse people into missing the dust and grime. But most important was the careful use of “mood” lighting; 25 watt bulbs and a myriad of Ikea candles. The pall over the room was so gloomy guests were squinting at their plates unable to determine whether they were eating chicken or fish.

That was before we had Henry. For the first couple years we had him, it was pretty easy to continue that charade. But when he became mobile, within days our home was a vast wasteland of toys, cheerios and sticky finger prints on every single wall. Because we were pretty much the first couple in our circle of friends to have kids, I tried for awhile to maintain some semblance of order so they would still come a calling. But it was hard.  Suddenly I needed some lead time before someone came to visit and if the doorbell rang with an unannounced guest, I began hiding behind my dingy blinds. Before invited friends arrived, I found myself shoving crap into closets, cupboards and under the beds. That soon lead to what all parents know as the invasion of the plastic totes. One large green tote begat another, and soon we looked like storage department at Home Depot. Unfortunately, lacking Superman’s x-ray vision, I had the Stonehenge of totes in shades of green, blue and gray with not a clue as to what they contained.  At one point I had eight stacked in the corner of the kitchen and when Henry would ask where his Hot Wheels or die-cast buses were hidden, it was simpler to just go out and buy a couple new ones. And also another tote.

When we moved from Seattle to Philadelphia, in several moments of manic-depressive episodes, we adopted a menagerie of wonderful and rambunctious dogs.  Three to be exact.  This is when things really began to fall apart.  Between the gallery, Henry’s activities and Scott’s work, it wasn’t just my own filth and slovenly habits that took over,  but also that of my husband and Henry.  Oh and yes, the dogs. When you go camping in the wilds, a Girl Scout knows to be a low impact camper. You leave the campsite as clean, if not cleaner than when you first pitched your tent.  Not one of us ever earned that particular merit badge, and with the addition of three dogs, there was major impact.  When I shut the door on each day, it looks like a band of gypsies and their cousins has taken up residence in our 160 year old home.

While I acknowledge that I’ve kind of given up being a good housekeeper, it doesn’t mean I let just anyone in to the inner sanctum.  At the moment, that honor is reserved for only the closest and least judgmental of friends and family.   The criteria for that kind of intimacy is when I feel comfortable enough to ask you if my house stinks, and you are a good enough friend to lie to me and say no.  All kidding aside, one of the things I love most about Henry’s school are the great friends he has made there.  And when one of his buddies walked in my house this afternoon and said, “it smells like dog”, I had to face the facts.  No amount of Febreze was going to fix that stink.  So I did what any good realtor does. I baked a pan of chocolate chip cookies and as soon as the sweet smell started wafting through the house, all was right with the world.