My mother is an addict. She’s suffered from this affliction for years. As family members, we’ve stood by and watched her disease progress. We’ve stood helplessly by while her habit has evolved and morphed into what it is now—a full blown addiction. Today, however, the stage has been set. My two brothers, four sisters, and I will host an intervention. We have resolved ourselves to the fact that Mom needs help—serious help. And not the kind of help we can give. Mom needs professionals. It’s that bad. My mother’s addiction is housecleaning. It is compulsive, it is obsessive, and it is just plain weird.
Her days start out seemingly innocent. She rises each day at 5:00 a.m., has one or two cups of coffee, chats about the day ahead, and so on. Then she begins her daily ritual as many of us women do—cleaning house. Except my mom does it, well . . . let’s just say thoroughly.
Mom has the cleanest house around. No, you don’t understand: it’s spotless—as in without a spot. Her living room is clean, her closets are clean, her brooms are clean—even her lint traps are spic-n-span. She has a routine for cleaning, polishing, spiffing, brightening, whitening, and waxing every last item in her home. Ceilings are repainted each May, throw rugs are washed each Saturday, and ash trays are cleaned out promptly at 6:00 p.m. every day. Nothing is overlooked.
My mom’s floors are clean enough to eat off. My mom’s dog is clean enough to eat off. She is renowned for her disinfecting abilities. Neighbors regale her scouring techniques. If they gave out awards for cleaning, my mom would hold the Congressional Medal of Honor. She should get a commission on Pine-Sol. She makes Mr. Clean look like a dirty bum. For the first five years of my life I thought Clorox was a perfume. You get the picture.
Not only is my Mom’s home clean, she’s got these rituals for cleaning. You would need a two-page flow chart and instruction manual in order to help her take care of groceries. Cold foods first, butter is carefully placed in the recently-scrubbed, meticulously clean refrigerator. Next are the dry goods—placed in freshly lined cupboards. Then, the spices—alphabetized! Allspice, bay leaves, cloves—they’re all there. And, last, but not least, canned goods. Where all labels must be facing forward at precise angles to one another--taller cans in back. Any upset in the routine and Mom will fix it. I’ve tried to help her--I swear I have. But she just ends up going behind me and re-doing everything I’ve done.
My mother has been known to re-paint the living room at 2:00 in the morning. I’ve witnessed her clean people’s shoes when they stop to visit. I’ve even seen her sweep the dirt in the driveway! She can vacuum a rug, dust a shelf, and change the toilet paper roll all at the same time. Drop a French fry in the back seat? Detour to the car wash—immediately. And ironing? Ironing?? Forget about it. I’ll bet my mom could iron clothes blindfolded and wearing nothing but an apron and her sneakers (yes, she insists on wearing shoes when she irons!).
I know what you’re thinking-- “So, she cleans a lot. So she believes the Immaculate Conception is something involving toilet bowl cleansers. If that’s the worst thing she does, let her be!” But last week when we found Mom with a neatly lined row of outlet covers drying on the counter, we knew she had to get help.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Mrs. Clean
My mother is an addict. She’s suffered from this affliction for years. As family members, we’ve stood by and watched her disease progress. We’ve stood helplessly by while her habit has evolved and morphed into what it is now—a full blown addiction. Today, however, the stage has been set. My two brothers, four sisters, and I will host an intervention. We have resolved ourselves to the fact that Mom needs help—serious help. And not the kind of help we can give. Mom needs professionals. It’s that bad. My mother’s addiction is housecleaning. It is compulsive, it is obsessive, and it is just plain weird.
Her days start out seemingly innocent. She rises each day at 5:00 a.m., has one or two cups of coffee, chats about the day ahead, and so on. Then she begins her daily ritual as many of us women do—cleaning house. Except my mom does it, well . . . let’s just say thoroughly.
Mom has the cleanest house around. No, you don’t understand: it’s spotless—as in without a spot. Her living room is clean, her closets are clean, her brooms are clean—even her lint traps are spic-n-span. She has a routine for cleaning, polishing, spiffing, brightening, whitening, and waxing every last item in her home. Ceilings are repainted each May, throw rugs are washed each Saturday, and ash trays are cleaned out promptly at 6:00 p.m. every day. Nothing is overlooked.
My mom’s floors are clean enough to eat off. My mom’s dog is clean enough to eat off. She is renowned for her disinfecting abilities. Neighbors regale her scouring techniques. If they gave out awards for cleaning, my mom would hold the Congressional Medal of Honor. She should get a commission on Pine-Sol. She makes Mr. Clean look like a dirty bum. For the first five years of my life I thought Clorox was a perfume. You get the picture.
Not only is my Mom’s home clean, she’s got these rituals for cleaning. You would need a two-page flow chart and instruction manual in order to help her take care of groceries. Cold foods first, butter is carefully placed in the recently-scrubbed, meticulously clean refrigerator. Next are the dry goods—placed in freshly lined cupboards. Then, the spices—alphabetized! Allspice, bay leaves, cloves—they’re all there. And, last, but not least, canned goods. Where all labels must be facing forward at precise angles to one another--taller cans in back. Any upset in the routine and Mom will fix it. I’ve tried to help her--I swear I have. But she just ends up going behind me and re-doing everything I’ve done.
My mother has been known to re-paint the living room at 2:00 in the morning. I’ve witnessed her clean people’s shoes when they stop to visit. I’ve even seen her sweep the dirt in the driveway! She can vacuum a rug, dust a shelf, and change the toilet paper roll all at the same time. Drop a French fry in the back seat? Detour to the car wash—immediately. And ironing? Ironing?? Forget about it. I’ll bet my mom could iron clothes blindfolded and wearing nothing but an apron and her sneakers (yes, she insists on wearing shoes when she irons!).
I know what you’re thinking-- “So, she cleans a lot. So she believes the Immaculate Conception is something involving toilet bowl cleansers. If that’s the worst thing she does, let her be!” But last week when we found Mom with a neatly lined row of outlet covers drying on the counter, we knew she had to get help.
Her days start out seemingly innocent. She rises each day at 5:00 a.m., has one or two cups of coffee, chats about the day ahead, and so on. Then she begins her daily ritual as many of us women do—cleaning house. Except my mom does it, well . . . let’s just say thoroughly.
Mom has the cleanest house around. No, you don’t understand: it’s spotless—as in without a spot. Her living room is clean, her closets are clean, her brooms are clean—even her lint traps are spic-n-span. She has a routine for cleaning, polishing, spiffing, brightening, whitening, and waxing every last item in her home. Ceilings are repainted each May, throw rugs are washed each Saturday, and ash trays are cleaned out promptly at 6:00 p.m. every day. Nothing is overlooked.
My mom’s floors are clean enough to eat off. My mom’s dog is clean enough to eat off. She is renowned for her disinfecting abilities. Neighbors regale her scouring techniques. If they gave out awards for cleaning, my mom would hold the Congressional Medal of Honor. She should get a commission on Pine-Sol. She makes Mr. Clean look like a dirty bum. For the first five years of my life I thought Clorox was a perfume. You get the picture.
Not only is my Mom’s home clean, she’s got these rituals for cleaning. You would need a two-page flow chart and instruction manual in order to help her take care of groceries. Cold foods first, butter is carefully placed in the recently-scrubbed, meticulously clean refrigerator. Next are the dry goods—placed in freshly lined cupboards. Then, the spices—alphabetized! Allspice, bay leaves, cloves—they’re all there. And, last, but not least, canned goods. Where all labels must be facing forward at precise angles to one another--taller cans in back. Any upset in the routine and Mom will fix it. I’ve tried to help her--I swear I have. But she just ends up going behind me and re-doing everything I’ve done.
My mother has been known to re-paint the living room at 2:00 in the morning. I’ve witnessed her clean people’s shoes when they stop to visit. I’ve even seen her sweep the dirt in the driveway! She can vacuum a rug, dust a shelf, and change the toilet paper roll all at the same time. Drop a French fry in the back seat? Detour to the car wash—immediately. And ironing? Ironing?? Forget about it. I’ll bet my mom could iron clothes blindfolded and wearing nothing but an apron and her sneakers (yes, she insists on wearing shoes when she irons!).
I know what you’re thinking-- “So, she cleans a lot. So she believes the Immaculate Conception is something involving toilet bowl cleansers. If that’s the worst thing she does, let her be!” But last week when we found Mom with a neatly lined row of outlet covers drying on the counter, we knew she had to get help.
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