BREAK OUT THE MOP AND HANG UP THE COAT

There are different kinds of "non-cleanliness." Since we've been shacking up together, I have found that Miss Meagan and I inhabit seperate but equal modes of non-cleanliness. I have found that I am pretty damned anal about things not being in the places in which they should be. Things like: coats over chairs when we have a newly-installed coat rack upon which to hang them, clothes that could be folded and put away remaining in laundry bins, blankets not folded and the bed not made...etcetera. These are small, seemingly-insignificant things, sure, but I find that my mind is more at ease when the house is clean and picked up, clutter-free. I reckon I am anti-Clutter. That is not to say that I am completely Tony Randall-ing up in this bitch, but I do like things organized, I maintain the axiom that there is a place for everything and everything should be in its respective place. And when I catch myself being hypocritcally clutter-y, I try to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

Meagan, on the other hand, is completely clean. (And when she gets going on a cleaning spree, watch out. She'll go--all Energizer Bunny-like--for hours.) She wholly dislikes dirt and grime, while I can let things go for a long long time before I finally get off my ass and break out the mop and Scrubbing Bubbles. Exhibit A: the bathroom. Maybe it's because I don't wear my glasses as much as I should (rarely if ever) and so I conveniently don't-see the dirt and the grime and the pubes and the tobacco tar stains that accumulate slowly but steadily in the place in which we all evacuate the innards and wash ourselves clean. When Meegie breaks out the cleaning supplies and obliterates the accumulation, I am beside myself with glee. It is far more comfortable, for me, to wash my skin and shit and pee in a room that smells like daisies, a room in which the countertops and porcelin gleam with the light of a thousand suns. But. I'm lazy, I guess, when it comes to combattling (new word) grime. It just doesn't get under skin as readily as some other people's.

Maybe it's the career I have chosen that makes me so oblivious to dirt. An hour on the job--hell, even before we leave the yard--and my hands are greasy and dirty and my clothes are besmirched with terra firma.

This lasse-faire attitude, unfortunately, leaks into my responsibilities as a dog owner. I read things that my sister writes about picking up after her two behemoths on a weekly or bi-weekly schedule and I shake my head at myself. I pick up the yard once a month--year-round--and I call it good. I wonder what my neighbors think. I wonder, as it is with my eyesight not being the best that it could be, if perhaps my nose, my olfactory sense, is also not as good as it should be. Could the cigarettes that I smoke have rendered my sniffer a non-factor? Could the straights that I choo-choo have bamboozled my beak into believing that all smells like babies' breath? I'd ask my neighbors, but I'm afraid of what they might say. LOL

So...in some ways, Meagan and I quite polarized. She is uber-cognizant about germs and bateria, whilst I, um, not so much so. I like nothing on the floor and the countertops free of debris, she's not as concerned as I. Coatracks hold no mindbending sway over her; I figure, well, hell, since we have one, why not use it, huh?

"You gotta get the room clean or you're going to wreck the computer," my love says, from behind me. As I write this, Meagan is using the attachment on the Dirt Devil to collect the spiderwebs that have snuck into the corners of the computer room since the last time I noticed some--maybe two years ago? When the always-popular Charlotte pitched her web-tent on the corner of my kitchen counter? Or maybe the time that I was actually wearing my spectacles and actually noticed that there were cobwebs in the corner of the living room? Yeah, that.

Anyway, all this to say that, together, we're going to have the cleanest house this side of of the Mississippi. Together? We can do anything. It's really nice to have that sort of midset, that sort of attitude, huh?

Now all we have to do is work on Naomi. The fourteen-year-old needs to be learned that foodstuff and pop bottles really don't have to be in the living room or in her rarely-used bedroom. No, actually, when the person is done consuming, he or she can--and this is highly-controversial--he or she can--gasp!--put the uneaten food in the fridge and--holy crow!--put the glasses in the sink and the empty pop bottles in the return bag. I know, I know: I'm spouting nonsense, here. It'll come, though. Eventually, it'll come. She's already getting better about picking up after herself--kind of. But, one can hope, eventually the yearning to live in a clutter-free, clean house will infect young Nay-Nay and all will be good.

Hell, it's better already.

By the way, before I go, let me tell you that, last night, I slept with a couple of pussy cats. That's a first, for me. Lemme tell you this, too: I think, over time, people can lose theie allergies. (Conversely, people, too, can gain allergies, but that is not my point.) I used to be really allergic to cats. Not as bad as my sister Alexis and no way near as allergic as my mother, but, allergic enough, for sure. Now? I really don't think that I am affected by the feline persuasion. They both slept, on the bed, and I awoke feeling just only as run-down as I always do, no more, no less. Cool! Plus? They don't take up as much room on the bed as, say, a certain Beagle, a certain Boxer/Pitty.