don't call it a comeback

This morning I cleaned two drawers, both cutlery drawers, because when I opened one drawer to retrieve a coffee spoon my attention was caught by the crumbs lingering in the corner of the fork section.  Further examination also revealed fingerprints, black ones, as though perhaps the owner of those fingerprints had first done some work repairing some sort of engine and then celebrated by clacking spoons together, prairie style.  And then eaten some toast standing over the open drawer.

I removed all the cutlery from the plastic sorters, and then washed the sorters in the sink.  They looked quite new when I was done, but it wasn't the most satisfying kind of improvement because no one can see it unless I lead him into the kitchen, open the drawer, and explain that it once was rather crumby and fingerprinty.  And no one cares except me.

While I was washing the cutlery sorters I was thinking about two things.  One of these things was about moving, because I remembered buying these cutlery sorters when we moved into this house five years ago now.  There were instructions on how to cut the sorters down to the right size so they would fit perfectly inside the drawer.  And I remembered how new and clean the cutlery sorters felt, and how perfectly they fit.  And I remember the newness of the drawers in which I placed them, because we had also had the kitchen remodelled.  It was an exciting time, a time of things being new.

And the other thing I thought about was why I have never hired a maid to clean my house once a week, or even every other week.  I have guilt around my poor housekeeping.  Part of the problem may be latent rebellion against my mother who has OCD, and kept -and still keeps- her house perfect at all times.  But JesusGod I'm not a teenager anymore, so why can't I run the vaccuum across the floor once in awhile without it meaning I have given up my identity?  If someone else was to do it for me perhaps I would feel less inclined to fix engines and eat toast over the cutlery drawer.

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