The topic of chores comes up a lot in my home. Maybe it’s because of the confines of COVID-19, but my astute wife has noted that I could comfortably live in a pig-sty. When she does, I remind her it could be worse; we could be stuck outside, where if the sun doesn’t get you, a gator, snake, or reckless driver will. Then, buzzards will pick at your bones. My wife sides with the buzzards, “At least they’ll pick you clean.”
So, spurred on by my dearest, here is my magnum opus in defense of the “messy,” or as I like to consider them, the uniquely organized. Dirty dishes in the sink are where they should be, having an extra soak so as to not overly tax the dishwasher.
Speaking of dishes, in my youth, after dinner, my father would often scoot back in his chair to pronounce, “I think we should let the butlers [my brother and I] clean up tonight.” Because of this, I suspect I know the choice words Jeeves muttered alongside, “As you wish, sir.”
On the topic of chores, I know there’s another side. So, if you read no further, I understand, and I hope you enjoy dusting the undersides of books, edging your yard with scissors, and scrubbing your bathroom floor until your knees bleed. May you do so in the full knowledge that everything you do will be undone by the merciless passage of time.
Let’s look at some common chores I was asked to do as a youth, shall we?
Sweeping the patio. No big deal, right? That’s what I thought until I took my first broom in hand. Maple leaves are constantly distracted by the wind, pine needles move for no one, and oak leaves love soaking in corners covered with luxuriant moss. One oak leaf defied me for my entire youth and will soak on long after I’m gone. Facing these broom defiers was like stepping into a 1950s pizzeria in Chicago and saying, “I’m a fed.” Leaves stared at me like I was an idiot and made threatening remarks about where I’d like to store my kneecaps. And when and if I ever got those little blighters into a pile, I could never keep them there long enough to hold a trash bag open. The wind spirits played merry hell with that bag. I remember thinking, this would be so much easier if I had 50 hands.
Weeding. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the fact that every third weed is concreted and rebarred to the earth’s upper crust. Also, every third weed would either stab me or be a snake … which brings me to the more sophisticated chores.
Laundry. When I mildew myself by gathering all of my horrid piles, I stand still before what I call the machine of greatest consternation. Separating darks and lights I understand. But then, the machine begins to offer me options: “Would you say you have a light, medium, or heavy load? How would you like your water temperature: frigid, luke-warm, or boiling? Would you like it river-washed, hand-chucked, or laser-cured … or permanently pressed? Would you like me to melt your brain now or keep asking questions?” I stand, like a deer plummeting toward a search-light, with the knowledge that, if I make one wrong choice, everything I own will come out shrunken and pink-a-fied.
The topic of chores is pressing, perhaps permanently, since I’m writing on a Saturday, we have guests coming, and I know I’ve got to straighten the garage, gather my piles, and sweep a bunch of stuff under carpets. So, I should quit writing soon so as not to lose my mind to dread.
I’ll end on a note about humanity. Long ago, anytime before COVID-19, I was helping a friend of mine straighten the office at work. He noticed that one of the office chair’s rollers was loose, so he flipped it over. On the underside of the chair, we noticed off-white stains. Wondering what it could be, but knowing in the back of our minds that this could be one of those discoveries you could never undiscover, we began to flip all the chairs in our area. Sure enough, all of them had these stains, mostly under the seats beneath the armrests. Either somebody had a serious case of nasal-dig-plus-chair-swappy, or everyone’s a little messy at times. Make that a lot messy and gross. So if you haven’t read this far because you’re out ordering the world by chore-ing it to death, check under your chair.
