Clean?

Clean is in the eye—and nose—of the beholder. As parents know, something declared “clean” by a teen often means nothing more than a path through the rubble, and the absence of obvious ebola.

To me, clean means the absence of visible grime or unpleasant smells, and an orderly appearance. By order, I mean a lack of clutter.

Here, my beloved spouse, Bruce, and I, like many roommates, differ. He agrees with the absence of dirt or odors, but doesn’t recognize clutter.

I want visitors to feel enveloped in a warm hug. The welcome feeling fades when one trips over a briefcase, or must fight for counterspace to set down a coffee cup. Bruce feels belongings scattered about makes a home feel "lived in," while, a hammer left on the coffee table is handy for the next project.

When it comes to organization, however, my better half is, well...better. His closets and drawers are a methodical work of art. Mine are also a work of art. Think Picasso. I clean things out periodically, but they never stay that way. Bruce has offered the services of a professional organizer. Unless said professional plans run behind me from closet to pantry to drawer 24/7, it's not going to help.

But, seriously?  Do you need to snoop inside my closet to feel welcome?  If so, I'm not inviting you twice. Bruce, on the other hand, could give tours of his closet, with no advance warning. 

These different belief systems have caused some stress in our marriage. Take the time we had a big party scheduled in a couple hours, the house was clutter central and I needed a few final things from the store.

"Honey, I've got to do a grocery run, this place is a mess, and guests are imminent. Could you clean up?"

"Sure, no problem."

I left, feeling as I often do, truly blessed among women. 

Imagine my surprise when I returned to a house which was more cluttered than before. My beloved was in the garage.

"Doesn't it look great?" Bruce asked proudly, sweeping his arm to indicate his newly organized garage. Swept and mopped. Beautiful. Only thirty years of marriage, and the realization that I had failed to define my terms kept me from getting the hammer off the coffee table and applying it briskly to his head.

I guess it’s all about appearances. This was hammered home the day we had Mrs. RothBottom over for dinner. Mrs. RothBottom is one of “those.” You know. Perfect figure, perfect hair, perfect clothes. Wealthy widow. To make it worse, she has a brain and uses it. I can swallow perfect better when it’s matched with stupid.

She was a client who said she wanted to get to know us better. I suspected her of wanting to know Bruce better, but he said I was crazy. We’d had an incredible dinner, served by a maid, at her Buckhead house.

Now, she was coming to our home. It was “clean” by any standard. I had prepared my best recipes, finishing with an  infamous chocolate dessert designed to add inches to even Mrs. RothBottom’s bottom.

I was looking as good as it gets. I even had on makeup. I was all set to make a good impression.

Until Bruce led her inside not through our perfectly good front door, with its polished brass nameplate, but through the laundry room. 

Really? Bruce brings Ms. “I’m All That” in through the only unclean room in the house? Because who cleans a room designed for dirty laundry? It is also home to the kitty toilet. With two cats, it always smells pungent. I had cleaned it an hour before, but one of the cats had just bestowed a token of approval. The room reeked of Eau de Feline.

Pride is an ugly thing. I gave up. I’m not going to try to keep clean with the RothBottoms. I have enough trouble maintaining my own standards.

So, what is the definition of clean? I guess it comes down to the compromise that you and those who live with you can tolerate.