To say that I am a reluctant Domestic Goddess is probably understating my loathing for all things housekeeper-ly. I am the child of someone who is blessed in all things domestic. Unfortunately, whilst she was doing all that nurturing, Mrs Archer regretfully forgot to pass along the knowledge about Very Useful things such as How to Keep a Spotless House; and How to Cook a Decent Meal. We could get into a discussion about nature v nurture and the impact of the environment upon the child, but hey, at the end of the day, I am by nature a Sloth.
Well, it is not strictly true that Mrs Archer simply forgot to impart her wisdom; Mrs Archer did indeed do her best to instil in Young Harriet the rudiments of Homemaking; however I seem to recall these communiqués fell on strictly deaf ears. My former demi-goth, pre-emo, post-punk self was all “like whatever, mum. As if I am going to need to know that crap, I am going to have a career and be fair sick and that” or whatever the eighties equivalent of a singularly unco-operative teenage girl may well have said (probably a very emotive eye-roll and a sigh - I seem to recall spending a lot of my adolescence Not Speaking to my Mother). Mrs Archer did indeed do her best, and to this day I still hang washing and fold sheets and towels the “Approved Mrs Archer Way” (as does the Sibling - who is not known for seeking approval of the parental variety).
I left home at a reasonable age, straight into a share house with two blokes; neither of whom were Domestically Gifted. The bathroom got cleaned when the mould started to touch one’s head and or feet in the shower. And Not Before. Dusting occurred when someone realised the television picture looked a bit dim. And as for cooking - well, I still lived close enough to home for a couple of meals a week and Ripper Roasts delivered.
Another share house and a motley crue of co-tenants picked for their ability to pay their share of the rent on time, rather than any skillz on the domestic front. Housework was yet another dirty word, with people flinging around a dish cloth and half a bottle of White King when the mould started to rise. Ok, that particular house had issues of it’s own that no true Martha Stewart type would have been able to remedy without the aid of a bulldozer. Week days were spent working, and the weekends were spent preparing for and recovering from the excesses of the night before. Not time to cook or clean or any of that petty bourgeoisie stuff; a heartily disposable income meant buying a new outfit instead of working out the vagaries of the washing machine. And Ripper Roasts still delivered.
Time marches along and I moved into my own house. I developed my own system of Piles and Pathways to portray the illusion of order. There were clear pathways to the important things like the bed and the fridge; and if I could immediately more or less put my hand on the pile that may or may not have had what I was looking for… that’s organisation, isn’t it? I could cook a little, and got around my limited repertoire by having cereal for dinner and buying a substantial lunch each day.
Then I met the Bloke of the House.Well, to say our ideas of housekeeping were poles apart was probably understating their disparity. My “eh, just put that pile over there and sit down” ways clashed somewhat with his love of clear surfaces (and clear couches). And apparently those cupboards with the stick in them are for hanging ones clothes instead of draping them across the floor. I also learned that just because I had 8 plates, it did NOT mean I could go for 8 days without doing the dishes - I didn’t have that many saucepans anyway; and hey, I only had four bowls, so I did the dishes at least every FOUR days, alright? I was water saving…
Something HAD to give.
So I dusted off my copy of Mrs Beaton’s Guide to Household Maintenance. (Yes, I really do have a copy. It was given to me by a swain in my youth. Possibly, it could have been a subtle dig at my superlative housekeeping skills. I wouldn’t know why…) many pages on how to deal with recalcitrant under footmen and disciplining scullery maids… Hey, STAFF… now *there* is an excellent idea. However, the main problem with Staff these days is that you have to pay them. By the hour. And in order to render a house suitable for actual cleaning, one needs a team of several Staff and bucket loads of cash. So I was still spending copious time rearranging Piles in order for the Staff to clean around them. NOT what I had in mind. My thoughts were centred on a team of scullery maids, a cook, an under footman or two, and Eduardo the Pool Boy…
So I turned to the Internet.
As you do.
And its way more fun than cleaning… And yes darling, I know I should be cleaning this godforsaken pit of filth, but I am Learning New and Better ways to make our home a lovely sanctuary, ok? No, I am NOT playing endless games of Solitaire… And in amongst the endless games of Solitaire, I stumbled upon Flylady.
Now, my first dip into Flylady wasn’t all that successful. Flylady has some philosophies that do not coincide with mine (she doesn’t like PILES for a start); and when I first dipped my toe in, was more geared toward the stay at home housewife with her children off her hands - which certainly didn’t help a sometimes working, sometimes not, mother of pre-schooler, who was also a student and who wanted to have a life occasionally. And quite frankly, I find the infomonials and testimercials slightly disturbing - saving a marriage with a $17.95 organiser? I don’t know about that. Flylady is a bit like Oprah for cleaning - one mention of your product on her website and hey - instant hit! Not to mention that some of her ideas seemed downright ridiculous. I mean the whole idea of keeping my kitchen sink clean and shiny by putting my dirty dishes in a tub under the sink… eeuuww.
So I wandered off. I discovered the Organiser lady and The Bat Lady and a number of Other Ladies, none of whom seemed to have the Magic Wand I needed to get my head around this whole “get rid of the piles and have a clean house” thing. So I returned to Flylady once again. This time, I decided to have a crack at the magical Control Journal which would instantly transform my chaos into order… Except it didn’t. Oh, and I got bored with compiling it… Which really didn’t help at all. Although I do now have a central place to keep the takeaway menus.
In the midst of all this, I discovered a few of my own housekeeping tricks - like how one can make Order appear out of the Chaos one determined two year old can create, get a meal started and have the kid clean and presentable in less than an hour before the BOTH gets home from work; andafter the Lady Of The House has spent the entire day lolling on the couch and idly surfing the internet for housekeeping tips! Now that involves serious flying - the flying around the house in a mad panic kind of flying. And gratuitous use of a large plastic washing basket…
This method of tidying is the Fly-By method - where I enter a room, chuck everything that didn’t belong into the basket; move to the next room, rehome anything from the basket that belonged there; and chuck everything that didn’t belong in the basket - rinse and repeat and before you know it, there IS a semblance of order amongst the carnage; all that’s left in the basket is rubbish, which gets chucked in the bin. Run the carpet sweeper over the floor and if Bob’s not yer uncle, he’s definitely a close relative!
This was followed by the Smoke and Mirrors technique - it’s all in the illusion. If the floors are clean, the room looks clean - even if it needs a good dust and there’s a three week old apple on the windowsill. Making the bed gives an illusion that the entire room is tidy; because your eye is drawn to the clean, flat surface and no one can see the chaos behind the door. And speaking of doors… Shutting them on the whole disaster makes a world of difference in maintaining the delusion. Temporarily at least. This is good for distracting stray visitors.
Anyway, somehow or other, doing Fly-Bys with Smoke and Mirrors seemed to make the PILES shrink to Piles; and before I knew it, the Piles became piles. Cupboards were being emptied of the Boxes of Piles, shelves were appearing where the much smaller piles could be accommodated and I discovered a little book in a junk shop in Castlemaine. This little book was giving me the same message as Flylady, but without the Control Journal and the box of dirty dishes in the cupboard under the sink. It also gave me a method of breaking down the tasks I had to do in order to make my house run in a way that satisfied both my need for minimalist effort and the BOTH’s desire for clean spaces. And somewhere I realised what my issue was with Flylady.
I don’t like her language!
I object to being told what to do, so OUT with the Control Journal and IN with The Organised Chaos Book. It’s what I am doing - organising my chaos. Flylady calls CHAOS “Can’t have Anyone Over Syndrome” - when you’re too embarrassed to have visitors; but that never bothered me. I figured people came to see me, and I could always move a pile out of the way so they could sit down. If they didn’t like my mess, they could invite me to the pub! As for Crisis Cleaning - Blood is a crisis, Fire is a crisis, Global Warming is a crisis… a bit of mess aint!
So I am dipping my toes back in the Flylady waters; this time armed with a phrase book.
I do indeed like some of her ideas (that’s probably why I keep going back) - like you really CAN do anything for 15 minutes; and spending 15 minutes getting ready the night before saves me close to half an hour in the morning. Making my bed each day (no matter how often I have to do it) really does make me smile. Flylady has also added in Flying with kids, and Flying for working women - I wonder when she’s going to add the Flying with a toddler and a school kid and working all at the same time whilst trying to squeeze in a workout occasionally? The little book lead me to work out my daily routines AND get them into the right order for maintaining the house. I’ve also discovered the joys of Flying with my Imaginary Friends who help take the drudgery out of the endless repetition of each day.
I have to admit that I have come to enjoy living in a more ordered place; where everything has a home instead of a pile. So I have raised my standards a little bit, and the BOTH has lowered his and we’ve met in a slightly calmer place closer to his end of the scale than the middle. A place where the bills are paid, there’s food on the table and clean washing in the cupboards. The ironing is outsourced and there’s no mould growing in the shower. You can walk through the house without dislodging a precarious Pile of anything… Ok, there’s the odd dust bunny here and cobby there; but hey, I still have a ways to go.
And as for that box for dirty dishes?
Well, I call MINE a dishwasher!