The neurotic perfectionist cleans house

I’ve just spent forty-five minutes searching online for a way to purchase a particular kind of scouring sponge I grew attached to while in Toronto. And, as six (six!) light bulbs in our flat have blown over the last month, a place to buy them in bulk. Since Jeff is working and I’m not, I feel pressure to keep a good house. And today I will make the concession that my parents have been gleefully waiting to hear for thirty years: it’s hard work to run a home. And it really eats into my web surfing time!

Once I start cleaning I become obsessive and lose all perspective. It quickly snowballs into hours of emotional trauma. Today I got back spasms after affecting my hunched-over vacuuming posture (the better to inspect the floor for missed particles of lint or dirt) and had to lie flat until it calmed down. As I stared at the ceiling I reflected that it's kind of a luxury to fixate on that last little dirt speck, since without mod cons you'd never have the time or energy. And also, that I need to get out more.

We’re still living without a dishwasher, and it depresses me. The moment I get through a pile of dishes a whole new stack is created. If I ever stick my head in an oven, it will be caused by the ultimate futility of keeping a kitchen clean. I have only a flat to look after, not a whole house. I have only a boyfriend to clean up after (whose culinary skills, technology know-how and general joie de vivre more than compensate for his relaxed dishwashing standards), not a horde of children. How do people do it?

I think my coping strategy will be to get a job, work late, and come home too tired to care. Good thing I’ve just been offered one!