My writing group friend, Pearl, sent out four prompts for our group. I cannot provide a ready response to three of the four questions.

You’d think I’d know what my idea of perfect happiness is, what my greatest fear is, or what trait I find most deplorable in others. I’d have to cogitate for a spell to find answers to those.

The fourth question, “What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?” I answer this one readily. I don’t need to ponder for a nanosecond.

I deplore my inability to keep a home that is comfortable and inviting.

If you’d asked five years ago, the answer would have been my depressive nature. But having (finally) been relieved of chronic major depressive disorder, I go bad housekeeping.

You’d think I’d answer anxiety or the PTSD traits which sometimes flair up, but since they are intermittent, it’s bad housekeeping that wins the prize.

Simply deplorable. (That’s not my house in the pic, but you get the idea.)

I realize that my loved ones still love me despite this trait. They’ve reassured me that they don’t care (most of them). They’ve said they feel welcome. Some have said they don’t care about how thick dust is.

Nonetheless, I care! So why oh why don’t I just do something about it?

My pat answer is that there’s always something more interesting to do than housekeeping. But I do do things that are just as boring as housekeeping.

Like weeding. I find weeding meditative. I enjoy it. Mowing the grass. Grocery shopping. Brushing my teeth. Getting vaccinated. Feeding the dogs. All boring tasks I manage to get done in a timely fashion. There must be more to overcoming this deplorable trait than its boringness.

And you would think that, for the gargantuan number of anxiety points my bad housekeeping has caused in my lifetime, that overcoming it would be a priority.

Age 20—picture me hiding in the pantry when the landlord stopped by. Age 30—working for a month to get the place presentable for the annual July 4th party. Age 40—hiding in a closet when the neighbor knocked at the door. Age 50—claiming work was the reason I didn’t have time for dinner parties. Age 60—unable to invite work colleagues over because of the cobwebs, knowing one of workmates suffers from acute spider phobia.

I’ve got six years until age 70. Will I be able to forgo my give-me-two-weeks-notice-before-you-visit policy by then? Is there hope for me yet?

It’s not that I’m stupid. Not to brag but to prove my point, I graduated college with a 4.0 grade point average while working and raising a child. If I can understand Immanual Kant’s categorical imperative, I should be able to push a mop, shouldn’t I?

I’ve been interviewing people with clean houses, like my brother and sister-in-law, about how they do it. I watch people clean house on YouTube. I’ve read more books about how to do it than I can count.

There’s something about the process that eludes me.

It’s not that I want my house to be as immaculate as my brother’s. I’d settle for far less than that. I just want to stay on top of things so it’s not a crisis if someone drops by unannounced.

Oh before you say it, I’ve tried hiring housekeepers. That hasn’t work for me because the level my anxiety reaches while prepping for them to come, is such that, if anything goes amiss, like them failing to show up three times in a row (as happened with the last one), it does me in and I cancel the whole thing.

Currently, hiring someone isn’t even an option because my good old Henry dog can’t be isolated due to his disabilities. I suppose I could find a big-dog-loving maid but he’s a cranky old dog these days who could take a dislike to a stranger with a vacuum. Better not risk it.

Sigh.

The bar for the level of clean I’m going for is low. I just don’t want guests:

to be disgusted by odors (dog, garbage, or decaying mouse, bird, or bat we failed to notice), or
to worry they’ll catch typhoid fever, or
to leave resembling a Yeti, covered in dog hair, or
to find the thickness of the dust something they should definitely report to the Guinness Book of World Records.

I suppose there are worse things than being a bad housekeeper. I’m not a chronic liar. I don’t steal. I’m not keen to become the next world dictator. I don’t make people feel guilty for not buying Tupperware from me (is Tupperware still a thing?).

So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll get all Buddha-like and show compassion to the bad housekeeper inside of me instead of deploring her. As my therapist would say, try looking at the problem with curiosity rather than judgment. I’ll keep watching those videos and reading those books.

But if you want to drop by, be sure to drop me a text.

Two weeks in advance please.

Simply Deplorable

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