Of Dust Bunnies and Other Domestic Horrors.

The plight of a working mother with two jobs is made worse with a choice. The choice was, do I continue writing, or give it up to be a better housekeeper, a better mother, a better wife. I gave it up—for almost a week. I found out I’m a better wife and mother if I can exercise my craft. I write, therefore, I am.

But that says nothing for my housekeeping. With only so many hours in the day—and night—something gets left out. Let’s face it, would anyone rather do housework than anything else in the world, say, even a root canal?

Each week, I squeeze out an hour or two to run the sweeper, man a dust rag and toss a few things in the laundry (only what’s absolutely needed to dress myself or my child) and spend the rest of the time in pursuit of the creative. Everything changes. Some changes are good.

Recently my day job offered the opportunity to work from home. I thought it over for a long time. It’s a lot to consider. Do I wish to always be in my own home, to never leave during the daylight hours, to not have coworkers surrounding me and laughing? As it turned out, I decided I could live with it. It was the advent of winter that sealed the deal. The thought of my pretty red sporty car on the snow and ice was enough to scare my hair white.

The things you discover when you’re in your own home twenty-four hours a day are mind-boggling. One of those things is that the housekeeping gene in my family is dominant. I thought it had skipped my generation. I thought it might actually be a disease that only affects those in my family such as my grandmother and my mother. We suffered through a childhood of demands, such as, “Pick up your shoes,” “Clean your room,” “Your turn to do dishes,” and “Is this where you found it? Clean up this mess!”

I now hear those words flying from my own mouth. I swore it wouldn’t happen, but it’s happening. The twelve-year-old princess is finding out what it’s like to live with a stay-at-home mom. I don’t think she’s pleased. Those chores do pile up.

For the first few weeks at home I tried to turn a blind eye. Then it hit me all at once. I’ve lost control of my life. There are things in my house that I’m ashamed of, other things I cannot find, and still other things so disorganized I cannot figure them out.

Then the new year hit. The Christmas decorations were stored away for another year and the place looked like a warmed-over version of hell. Still, I tried to ignore it. Nagging feelings of total chaos danced in my head. It even got to the point where I could no longer write. It’s too much chaos!

Things had to change, so, New Year’s resolutions:

1.       Clean this Mother Hubbard (censored expletive) of a house.

2.       Be kinder to myself and others.

3.       Wrestle back control of my life.

It came to a head one day while working at my day-job. I work for a call center, answer questions for those who call in and ask. There is no room for errors. So, as I researched the needed information, I was brutally attacked. That’s right, attacked. A small horde of vicious dust bunnies took flight and went for my eyes. Thinking fast, I put my caller on hold and went on the defensive, swatting and swinging until the nasty creatures were subdued.

After the call, I took my break and went on the hunt for that horrifying, unnatural being known as the domestic dust bunny. It was the dog who had flushed them from their hiding places. The evidence was quite literally written on her poor face in the form of fuzzy gray balls of fluff. She looked confused, upset and not a little terrified. Something had to be done. The malicious creatures had taken on life and were stealing the dog’s food and socks from the laundry monster. Unbelievable.

I was on a mission. Over the next few days I tore into each room, tracking and hunting, evicting spiders along the way as I sought out self-animated and self-aware dust bunnies. It was in the man cave where I found the breeding ground. I was at war and the stakes were high. At one point I even thought about using my husband’s old shotgun. I won’t tell you what I did about the thought, but the husband was not amused. The most difficult part was patching the holes in the floor, walls and door.

They’re all gone now.

Still, there were my goals for this year. There are things that stand in the way of such lofty goals—things such as the laundry monster and the mail beast.

The laundry monster is pretty well self-explanatory. We’ve all experienced such creations of our own making. The pile grows higher and higher until an avalanche threatens to destroy lives. After getting the many missing socks from the now-vanquished dust bunnies, the pile grew higher. I started on it straight away.

What to do while waiting for the laundry was to tackle the mail beast. This creature is a bit more rare. We don’t throw out our junk mail. We don’t have a shredder, but we have a fireplace. One does not fire up the fireplace in the heat of the summer, so one stores the mail until such time as a fire is feasible.

By that time, feasibility of a fire was not an issue. The mail beast was. It was too large to tackle. It was spreading its piles across the counters, reproducing asexually and making a bid for world domination. Cooking meals was becoming risky.

You see, it wasn’t a matter of scooping it off the counter and making trips to the fireplace. The problem was it wasn’t all junk mail. There were needed documents in the beast, documents that weren’t a priority, but needed to be sorted from the belly of the beast and filed away. Daunting at best.

So, while the laundry was going, and the dust was settling, the mail had to be sorted. I was well through it all, had most of it sorted into piles according to subject or into the flames when I ran across something startling—a letter from one of my best friends. It was dated July, 2013.

Chaos ensued and won the day while I stopped to read the coveted, rare, hand-written, post-marked letter. When was the last time you got such a rare treat? I nearly did a jig of joy. (Okay, I did the dance since no one was looking.)

The mail beast was left in its sorted piles while I answered the letter with five rambling pages of hand-written silliness. It had to be answered immediately. It had waited for an answer for six months.

The letter is now in the mail and when I glanced over, I saw that the beast was once more trying to retake it’s former shape, although much reduced in size. Meh, I’ll worry about it tomorrow.

Thirty Year Reunion

7 July, 2013

Thirty years came and went. Where did they go? It was all about the cutest boy, the hottest girl, what was playing on the radio and the latest beer bust at the lake. Now it’s about children, grandchildren, careers, jobs and bills. One minute we were lost in teenage heartbreak, drama, parties and parking on country roads, the next we’re arriving at the door of a restaurant, nervous, giddy and excited.

Pictures taped to the walls remind us of who we once were. Four pictures on a poster remind us of how many and who we lost. Sadness fills us, gladness over-takes us and we revel in the joy of seeing each other again.

Marty met me at the door with a hug and a “You look great!” Thanks, Marty. You’re good for a woman’s ego. The next one I saw was Julie. She was easy to recognize, with twinkling eyes and a flip of her hair. Theresa laughed and welcomed me aboard. Brenda introduced herself to me. Brenda? My gosh. You haven’t changed.

I saw Susan and knew her in an instant. She’s still gorgeous. I always hated her for that—but in a friendly way. Teresa, your hair is short. I hardly recognized you, but you look great. Deanna, still so pretty and fun, you were always one of my favorites to watch. I forgot to ask how your family is.

Paul hadn’t changed. He served dinner in his restaurant, The Courtyard Café, with the help of his family; his son looks so much like him. The food was fabulous, just like you expect it to be down home.

I knew Pat and Shelley would be there. It was a race down the highway, first me, then them and on again—a dangerous, fun game of bumper tag at high rates of speed. That is, until I saw the cop on the side of the road and hit the brakes. They flew past me, uncaring about the man with the badge, waving and laughing. It reminded me of those days thirty years ago.

Conversation moved quickly: How is your sister? Where do you live? What are you doing now? How many kids? Do you remember . . .?

Do you remember? My time with these lovely people was a total of six years. It started in church camp and seventh grade. I had the pleasure of watching them go from pig tails and bubble gum to plans for education, marriage, career.

Then there was nothing. It’s my own fault. I walked away in 1986 and returned to be sociable only once in thirty years. Our twenty year reunion was fun, but I walked away after that, too. It was good to see everyone, but I was done when the night was over.

Something strange happened this time, though. It wasn’t just good to see my former classmates. It was a connection to home that I was missing. It actually felt good to be home, not that it wasn’t good before. It’s just that before I wasn’t ready to rejoin that part of my life. I was busy with a new baby, a very demanding career, a home in need of work and all that writing I’ve done over the past many years. I suppose it’s safe to say that now I’m at a more settled place in life and it was good to be home with everyone.

It’s funny the things you remember. Marty was a funny guy who liked to torment me. Susan sat next to me in Simonson’s history class (or was it English?) and always whispered funny quips. Teresa was a long-legged cheerleader with a sharp eye. Preston is still smiling. Pat was the athlete and Shelley cheered him at every game. Donita and Ed attended the same college as I, always together, always holding hands.

Duane and Denise, brother and sister, close and friendly. I remember the day Duane’s car slid off the road in the wet snowfall, right in front of our bus. Their mother, our driver, shook her head, stopped the bus and let them in. Not a word was said, but Duane told me his mother let him have it when they got home.

Theresa had a laugh that can still be recognized today. It’s infectious and raucous, and full of the joy of life. Julie was always very quiet. At the reunion, there were stories she told with the others that led me to believe there was a great deal more to her—especially after meeting her husband. They make a fun couple. Tiffany, what is there to say? She hasn’t lost her wit and had me in stitches.

I would have known Linda anywhere. She’s still that young girl sitting on the Miss Pittsfield float, swatting bugs and waving to the crowd. Becky changed, but only the color of her hair, and she and Theresa and Linda put on a great get-together.

There are more names, more people to name, but I’m thirty years older and that much more forgetful. (Oh, thanks for the hug, George.) So many didn’t show. Those who lived in and around town must have been too busy on their farms or with family on the holiday weekend. I was sorry they didn’t come and Bev said she would be there. Too bad she never arrived.

It took thirty years, but I finally got a class award. “The Most Interesting Hobby.” I shall treasure that little piece of paper and post it on my website when next I publish again. It will serve as a reminder of how far I’ve come since those days of our youth.

Pittsfield High School Class of 1983, thanks for a great time. I can’t wait for the next one.