All I can say is my little plastic dustpan has cracked under the strain. I've looked everywhere but can't seem to find one of those old-fashioned METAL dustpans. I don't want to keep spending money over and over again on cheap plastic housecleaning equipment. There should be good ones out there.
Actually, I can say one more thing. After my daughter's crispy toasted bagel crumbs were joined on the floor today by rich dark earth scattered out of the plant in the corner, I suddenly remembered why I resisted getting a cat for so long.
Saturday 17 March 2012
Wednesday 7 March 2012
DIARY OF A BAD HOUSEWIFE - Part I*Not to be confused with the "Diary of a Bad Housewife" Blog by punk feminist Alice Bag WHICH I TOTALLY DIG!!*
Have got my cute little checklists all printed and posted up in appropriate places in the house. Thought I might get a jump start on that old devil "Spring Cleaning" but it looks like my tulips have beat me to the punch. Have also got a new pet in the house, a very stinky young ginger cat, and he has joined the conspiracy of my dog, my child and my husband to keep our house messy no matter what I do, or how many times I do it.
So I'm contemplating the role of the broom and of the act of sweeping in the life of, um, contemplation.
Like those monks, you know? Always sweeping the steps of the temple? It's a purely meditative state for them, and that's because there is no actual dirt to sweep. Just the rhythmic swish, swish of the broom across the ancient stone. The cleaning lady has already been through the temple with her vaccuum cleaner and assorted Swiffer products, and has gone home to do her laundry, clean her own house, put a yak in to roast, and play some Mah-jong with the girls.
At my house, as soon as I've cleared a space in which to place some small Zen-like meditative object, my husband comes in and empties his pockets. I suppose that's why I'm so attracted to the big cataclysmic overhaul that I mean when I say "Spring Cleaning." Just trying to keep on top of the clutter is not good enough. I want everything to change drastically, and forever, no going back to the dark (and dusty) ages.
Brooms, buckets, mops, dusters, fancy techno-cloth scrubbers, vinegar and baking soda, and so much more. I'll let you know how it goes.
So I'm contemplating the role of the broom and of the act of sweeping in the life of, um, contemplation.
Like those monks, you know? Always sweeping the steps of the temple? It's a purely meditative state for them, and that's because there is no actual dirt to sweep. Just the rhythmic swish, swish of the broom across the ancient stone. The cleaning lady has already been through the temple with her vaccuum cleaner and assorted Swiffer products, and has gone home to do her laundry, clean her own house, put a yak in to roast, and play some Mah-jong with the girls.
At my house, as soon as I've cleared a space in which to place some small Zen-like meditative object, my husband comes in and empties his pockets. I suppose that's why I'm so attracted to the big cataclysmic overhaul that I mean when I say "Spring Cleaning." Just trying to keep on top of the clutter is not good enough. I want everything to change drastically, and forever, no going back to the dark (and dusty) ages.
Brooms, buckets, mops, dusters, fancy techno-cloth scrubbers, vinegar and baking soda, and so much more. I'll let you know how it goes.
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