Yes, we're all given the same 24 hours and yes, some people seem to squeeze more out of theirs, but in my saner, less self-flagellating moments, I remember that Martha Stewart does have help (and plenty of it) and that those people who personally manage to keep the house ship-shape probably aren't the ones bringing in the money to keep the roof in one piece over the proceedings. I grew up in a tidy house (apartment, actually), but Mom's job was to take care of me and it; Dad's was to make the money, and until Mom tossed him out on his ass, he had a nasty habit of dumping whatever, wherever he felt like it.
Therein, I believe, lies my own problem in housekeeping; I'm Mom and Dad and it's not fair!
Or this morning: I work my ass off for this family and you won't even let me surf the damned internet for five minutes while I wait for the kettle to boil!!?! What is this, Communist Russia?!?
Because today's experiment was just that: use that sliver of time while there's nothing I have to do and am still half-asleep to set myself up for a fresh, clean start. We're not talking window washing or toilet scrubbing; more like emptying the dishes from the strainer. Making the bed. Putting the teabag in the teacup on the counter so it's ready for the water.
Woof, right? Still, I hear some little voice inside throwing a tantrum. It's not fair!
A brief digression: for the most part, I've escaped the horrors of entitlement. We were comfortable growing up and I did sport one set of doting grandparents, but there was also eight years of Catholic school, entire unfurnished rooms because we'd spent all the money on the mortgage and a Swedish grandmother who had to drop out of school during the Depression. Trust me, it was made 100% clear from all quarters what a lucky girl I was and what an asshole I'd be to take it for granted. So where does Miss Thing hail from?
I don't know, but I'm going to find her. Them. (I have a hunch there's more than one.) I'm undergoing a course of hypnotherapy right now to help me stay on my diet: you know, the diet that made the blood stop shooting out of my ass; that saved my bacon; that I followed happily, religiously, for two years before I became a whiny little brat who just wanted a piece of rye toast with breakfast, dammit! My hypnotherapist (he has no website, but if you're L.A.-based and looking, shoot me an email) suggested yesterday that maybe there is some part of me that I need to sit down and have a discussion with.
You see, I have a hunch that once I hear them out, they might be mollified. We all just want to be heard, or seen...right? And once we've all yakked it out and had a good cry, I'll be able to explain that we need to try this cleaning experiment, that we have some Big Shit to accomplish and it's worth a try to see if getting things organized makes a difference. And I'll bet you dollars to donuts that when they hear all that, Miss Thing & Co. are going to get with the program. They'll see the grand scheme and zip it.
If I'm lucky, maybe they'll even help with the dishes...