Coming Clean

I've made my love for all things Sedaris no secret. After taking a creative non-fiction writing class, my adoration of his writing has only grown. His books are a collection of personal essays drawing from his bizarre childhood (Sedaris is OCD clean, gay, one of six children, Greek, and grew up in Raleigh, NC). During my creative non-fiction class, I wished that I had done a few drugs in college, or hitchhiked across the country, or had a dysfunctional family. I can't help but notice such stark contrasts between myself and my writing idol and wonder if I could ever have such a rich pool of experience and perspective to draw from. Is having an adventure strictly for the purpose of writing material too contrived? Hmmm. That's pretty much the definition of contrived, isn't it?

Speaking of OCD clean... I've mentioned before that I come from a long line of neat-freaks. I, however, did not inherit the genetic disposition for freakazoid cleanliness. Like most people, I enjoy clean houses and dirty ones disgust me, but I do not fancy myself an expert cleaner. Do I lose sleep when the toilet needs scrubbing? Sometimes. There was one instance that traumatized me for life.

My dearly departed grandmother was the queen of clean. A couple of years ago, we hosted an impromptu Thanksgiving lunch at my house, as we wanted to spend time with the grandparents since we'd planned to be out of town that year. Joe and I scrubbed the house till it sparkled but ran out of time before we cleaned our master bath. Honestly, we rarely use the master bath, especially the bathtub and foolishly didn't think anything of it.

When my grandfather locked himself in the guest bath for his half-hour ritual of manic hand-washing and nose-blowing, my grandmother asked if there was another bathroom she could use.

"Grandpa should be out any minute, shouldn't he?" I asked nervously remembering the sad state of my master bathroom. My grandmother just laughed. According to her calculations, he'd be in there for another half-hour. Grandma was bent and using a walker, and she needed assistance getting around. My sister, sensing my panic, offered to help Grandma the twenty or so steps to my bathroom. I darted off and took one look at my bathroom and wanted to lock myself in it. It was a mess.

The unused tub was covered in thick layers of dust, and the neglected toilet was also dusty with the addition of a ring of black mildew growing around the waterline. The horror! Luckily, I found a stash of Clorox spray and quickly disinfected the toilet and scrubbed away the mildew. Next I tried to rinse out the tub, but there was nothing I could use to really clean it. At that moment, I heard my grandmother and sister behind me. The bathroom was still unclean, even by my standards, and my grandmother must have been completely repulsed at its state I braced myself for their collective scream of horror. She did not say anything, of course. I hardly gave her a chance. I was apologizing profusely for not having a pristinely clean restroom for her.

That experience is probably in the top five most embarrassing moments of my life. I've become a little more paranoid about cleaning, especially when expecting company. Since then, I've found a cleaning product that I love. Yep. I love a cleaning product. It actually makes me happy to use it. Perhaps you've tried it? Lysol 4 in 1 cleaner does everything and leaves no residue, a complaint I've had about other antibacterial cleaners. My favorite feature is the lemony fresh smell. It just smells clean and it makes me feel like I've done a good job cleaning when the area not only looks clean, but smells clean, too. Is it a "green" product? Don't know, don't care. I'm not dumping it down the sink, so I'm not too concerned. Besides, any product that makes cleaning pleasurable is okay by me.