For all my talk about self-esteem, I sure am insecure when it comes to having people over to my home.
Like a lot of women, I become obsessive over how clean the house is the minute plans with another human being are confirmed. It's slightly worse when it's another woman than if it were a man, because I know in my heart that all women are better housekeepers than I am. Their homes are spotless: the children's toys are well organized with every puzzle or game piece in its place, the bedroom is a sanctuary with fresh linens and fresher flowers, the bathrooms are immaculate with not a hint of little boy pee behind the toilet.
Every time someone is on their way over I clean.
And clean.
And... oh yeah, clean.
I sweep and mop and vacuum and throw out and recycle and organize and, when time is limited, do the opposite of organize as I frantically stuff everything into drawers. I have a large shelf in the living room where I can proudly display candle holders, pictures and other stuff that accumulates dust far too regularly. But I didn't buy it for the display factor, kids. The thing holds four square wicker baskets perfectly on the bottom. And you know what that means?
It means don't look in the baskets if you know what's good for you.
Not only do I try to impress people with irregular spotlessness, but I'm also a colossal bitch about it. My poor children witness their mother morph into a snarling beast who skulks around giving orders.
Oh, wait. Sorry. Wrong monster. That's me before coffee in the morning.
When I'm trying to fake my way onto someone's superhero list I am anything but snarling. I'm more the yelling sort. "Clean the playroom! It's disgusting in there!" "You're tired? Do you know how much I do in a day? I'm way more tired than you and I'm still going!" "Well maybe you're too tired to have your friends over today, then. No? Keep cleaning then!"
Yeah, I'm sometimes that mean. My poor little gremlins. They're going to hate all women by the time they leave home. They'll run off and join the Buddhist monks in the Himalayas (or wherever Buddhist monks hang out - somewhere chick-free, I'm sure). I'm traumatizing my children in the name of cleanliness. Any day someone's going to have me on the Dr. Phil show where he'll ask me how that's working for me and I'll tell him it isn't and he'll say it must be, because we only do things that give us a pay off. Then he'll go to commercial and I'll ask him why he butchered his mouth with those veneers. It's just not normal to have teeth that straight and white. Then we'll come back and he'll ask me the same question while trying to hide his fake teeth because he'll realize how right I am: How's that working for you? And I'll reply with: It makes me look like I have it all together when the house is cleaned.
If the place is tidy then I'm like all the rest of you with your neat and organized homes, your non-existent laundry pile, and your empty sinks. Our homes are a reflection of how the rest of our lives are, which means that you'll quickly realize that, just like you, I'm a great mother, a wonderful spouse, an excellent chef, highly intelligent, very organized in all areas of my life and, best of all, my floors are shiny.
So I cleaned to be like you. I exhausted and stressed out my little boys, fretted over the stains in the carpet, hid the laundry in the closet and stuffed everything else into those four wicker baskets...
Until one day - today, actually - I stopped.
See, I met this new friend. Let's call her Pixie, because her hair is short and blond and really cute. In fact, I kind of hate her because she can pull that style off. If I cut my hair that short I would look like a basketball wearing a poodle. Fat girls with curly hair don't do pixie cuts very well, much to my husband's dismay (he loves that look).
Enough of the hair rant. I still kind of hate her, though. Dr. Phil is on board with that because she also has very nice real teeth.
The thing is, I instantly hit it off with Pixie. She's a cool chick. She has two boys who wear glasses and I have two who wear hearing aids. We match!
... Oh, and Spawnling who doesn't. He's my spare boy in case I lose one, I guess.
As in all new relationships, I wanted to impress her, so I did what I always do and voraciously cleaned before her first visit to Casa Maven. She was impressed, I'm sure. I can say with certainty that she could clearly see I had it all together based on how shiny my faucets were.
On our next get-together I went to her place to watch a movie. Of course, this is girl code for "hang out and talk all evening" which is exactly what happened. Before that, she showed me around her spotless abode. The floors were virtually glistening with cleanliness (I found out later she pre-cleaned for me as well. Why do we do this to one another? It's cruel).
Last night we made plans to get together again. It was fairly last minute, which left me holding the bag this morning as I ran around frantically, barking orders in between voluminous gulps of coffee. I muttered disagreeable things under my breath as I folded laundry and swept floors.
It was when Gutsy told me how tired he was at 10AM when I realized how much of an idiot I had been. I told the 'gremz to stop cleaning the playroom. I let the squirrel-kabobs marinade in the fridge and went to make a phone call.
"Hello, Pixie? This is The Maven. Listen, you like me, right?... No, no. I didn't mean that way. You obviously like me that way because of all my sexual charisma. It's impossible not to. But what I mean is, we're friends, right?... No, I'm not asking you to bring coffee over. What is it with everyone? You'd think I'm obsessed with coffee or something?
"Anyway, the thing is, I... I... this is hard... Um, I don't really feel like cleaning today... I know my house was spotless last time you were over but I actually don't, um, live like that. In truth I'm a huge slob and I'd rather set fire to my eyebrows than mop more than twice a month.... no, no, I spot clean. That's what dogs are for.
"I just want to hang out and enjoy your company and not have my children pour arsenic into the coffee you're going to bring me because they hate my face.... You understand, right? What? Your house is spotless! ...ooooh... Not all the time. Ok. Gotcha. See you soon. Bye!"
There. That was simple, wasn't it? Why didn't I do that a long time ago?
I don't know why I kept trying to be all June Cleaver when I look so bad in patterned aprons. Besides, we all know June was smashed on sherry well before the Beav' came home from school. I kept expecting to find her head in the oven along with the roast. The pressure of having that much to do in a day. Mercy!
So, what did I do with all that spare time between said phone call and the impending visit? I blogged.
Duh.
You like me, right? Great. Now go get me a coffee.