I promise I'll get off this topic soon, but nesting and cleaning have been top o' mind recently for me. When I can get outdoors more, I'll move on, hopefully. But meanwhile, I must recant an amusing tale, with CityMom's kind permission.
I recently enjoyed a lovely afternoon of lunching out with her, followed by a chat session at her place. (I drove in, ditched my station wagon in the parking garage, and was gloriously urbanite for a few hours.) When I arrived, pre-lunch, she had just finished cleaning, and her stylish crib was immaculate.
Post-lunch -- now, we're talking only a little more than an hour -- we returned to quite a different scene. A pile of newspapers here; a few empty plates there; a big box o'toys half-emptied on the living room floor, perchance a child's winter coat or two adorning the furniture. The usual Saturday afternoon melange.
CityMom was anguished, and sputtered at CityDad: "I just cleaned! It was clean! BurbMom saw it...and look at it now!" I nodded my head sympathetically. I well knew what was awaiting me at home, and it was nothing like what I had left. Undoubtedly the kids, along with some of their miscreant neighbor accomplices, had worked over the tidy house in my absence, systematically emptying, daubing, gnawing and mashing, while The Dude, oblivious, plonked away on his laptop or watched golf.
Mildly, CityDad replied, "It's a home, CityMom, not a museum. How about we rent another apartment to actually live in, so this one can always stay clean?"
Which was a darn funny response, and made us laugh. It's not like CityDad is entirely unaware of the tidiness issue; he's exemplary, in fact, among his kind. And The Dude would clean up, too, if I bugged him later. Well, maybe with the help of a raised voice, a few tears if I have to. But what I don't get is -- why do we care so much, and they so little, if at all? Is it all the lady mags constantly telling us how everyday simple and easy-peasy it is to keep a perfect house, all in just five minutes a day and eight simple steps a week and only 15 minutes before company arrives, so we feel like total shlubs if one thing is out of place?
Or do females (and some gay dudes) face some greater biological or social imperative?