Confessions of a Domestically-Challenged Homemaker
If you glanced around my home, you would probably assume that I’m a great housekeeper— a veritable Martha Stewart. But you’d be wrong. True, you wouldn’t see any clutter. No piles of old magazines and newspapers littering chairs and table tops, no unwashed dishes in the sink, no rumpled clothes on the bedroom floors ... Everything looks neat and tidy.
However, if you paused for a closer inspection, you’d discover my dirty little secrets:
Don’t tell Martha, but my carpets haven’t been vacuumed or my furniture dusted since the last time I was expecting guests. It’s a good thing I entertain occasionally, or I’d eventually be able to plant an herb garden on my living room floor and some pretty posies on top of my bureaus.I do polish my silverware — but, again, only when I’m expecting company — and then only the pieces I expect to use.
I can’t remember when I last dusted my blinds, but I figure that’s not important because they’re covered by drapes. Come to think of it, when was the last time I had my drapes cleaned?
Also, my bureau drawers are a jumbled mess. Unmated socks meander aimlessly through random mounds of bras, gloves, panties and scarves; and necklaces are terminally tangled with bracelets and brooches.
Ditto my closets. I know that, ideally, my clothes should be separated by seasons — jackets, coats and sweaters in one area, shorts and sundresses in another, and all-season pants and tees in still another. Not in my house. Here bathing suits shamelessly fraternize with flannel bathrobes, and flip-flops flirt with fur-lined boots.
The first — and only — time I ever baked a cake from scratch was when I had to make one to pass Home Economics in high school back in the middle of the last century. I figure if God didn’t wanted us to use cake mixes, he would have banished Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines from grocery store shelves. (Frankly, I’m surprised that He allows Betty and Duncan to co-habitate so publicly.)
Furthermore, if my washing machine and dryer could talk, they would tell you that I never separate my whites from my colors, I throw my “delicates” in with my jeans, and I dry everything at either the high or permanent press setting — whichever one the gauge happens to be pointing to at the time. More often than not, I forget my laundry in the machine after it’s been washed for hours (okay, days), and I have to rewash it—or I’ll leave it in a heap in the dryer until wrinkles are permanently set in what should be my permanently pressed sheets and shirts.
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