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Abstract

mind around the real issue I have with housework, the demands have become even more of a personal tug-of-war.I like having a clean house.And sometimes, on those rare occasions when I’m dusting in the living room or the den, I feel almost happy, grateful to have something to clean. Many don’t.But I’ve never been one of those chicks who got up on Saturday morning, slipped into a roomy housedress, tied on a do-rag, threw some Aretha on the stereo, and happily immersed herself in cleaning her home.Nope. That’s never been me.Growing up the only girl with two older brothers, I was forced to help my mother hold down the fort and maintain our home. I resented it long before the women’s liberation movement told me I should.My mother, God bless her, accepted that “woman’s work” nonsense of her generation without question and let my brothers off the hook. Completely. They barely lifted a finger.But they delighted (it seemed) in sneaking up behind me while I was washing dishes to slip into the water another cruddy plate or glass they’d found in their room.<h2 id="4038">Washing dishes is the worst.</h2>I hated washing dishes most of all. The drudgery of it was so intense that even now, although I’ve had a dishwasher in my home since 1985, it still feels like a luxury item

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to me.Thank God my husband isn’t a clean freak. As long as the dust bunnies don’t tackle him in the hallway or grab his ankles from under the bed, he’s cool.I clean up when my conscience finally wins or company’s coming over. But even then, I clean only the rooms that they will occupy. Why knock myself out over the second floor when no one is going up there? Right?Don’t get me wrong. My house isn’t a total pit. But don’t look too closely at anything without at least a few hour’s warning before you stop by.Am I at peace with this? No.I imagine my mother frowning down at me from On High. But housework will forever be a thorn in my side. That is until I can afford to have someone come in and do it for me.Bucket list. For sure.<a href="https://medium.com/@edwinaowenselliott">Edwina Owens Elliott</a> is a visual artist and self-published indie author. She has spent over thirty years in the fashion, beauty, and entertainment industries as an art director, fashion illustrator, and graphic designer. Connect with her on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/edwina.owens.elliott/">Facebook</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/eoeatl/">Instagram</a>, <a href="http://www.winonainc.com">WINONA, INC.</a> and <a href="https://linktr.ee/eoeAtl">Linktree</a>.</article></body>

IT’S MY LIFE

Demon Housework

Keeping a clean house will never be my strong suit

In the last few years, housework — vacuuming, dusting, mopping — has become even more difficult for me to do on a regular basis. And my biggest problem with it, which I can’t seem to just accept like a good sport, has only now become crystal clear.

No matter how clean you get it today, it’s gonna be dusty again next week.

It took sixty-plus years for me to realize the simplicity of my life-long rebellion. I don’t know why. Renee, my Chicago bestie, declared long ago that I must be a little bit retarded because it takes a long time for me to get certain things.

I wasn’t offended. One, Renee loves me despite my occasional dim-wittedness. Two, I’m an artist, so I think almost exclusively on one side of my brain. The other side, the practical side, gets lazy from neglect. But I manage.

There’s something to be said for cleanliness.

Once I finally wrapped my mind around the real issue I have with housework, the demands have become even more of a personal tug-of-war.

I like having a clean house.

And sometimes, on those rare occasions when I’m dusting in the living room or the den, I feel almost happy, grateful to have something to clean. Many don’t.

But I’ve never been one of those chicks who got up on Saturday morning, slipped into a roomy housedress, tied on a do-rag, threw some Aretha on the stereo, and happily immersed herself in cleaning her home.

Nope. That’s never been me.

Growing up the only girl with two older brothers, I was forced to help my mother hold down the fort and maintain our home. I resented it long before the women’s liberation movement told me I should.

My mother, God bless her, accepted that “woman’s work” nonsense of her generation without question and let my brothers off the hook. Completely. They barely lifted a finger.

But they delighted (it seemed) in sneaking up behind me while I was washing dishes to slip into the water another cruddy plate or glass they’d found in their room.

Washing dishes is the worst.

I hated washing dishes most of all. The drudgery of it was so intense that even now, although I’ve had a dishwasher in my home since 1985, it still feels like a luxury item to me.

Thank God my husband isn’t a clean freak. As long as the dust bunnies don’t tackle him in the hallway or grab his ankles from under the bed, he’s cool.

I clean up when my conscience finally wins or company’s coming over. But even then, I clean only the rooms that they will occupy. Why knock myself out over the second floor when no one is going up there? Right?

Don’t get me wrong. My house isn’t a total pit. But don’t look too closely at anything without at least a few hour’s warning before you stop by.

Am I at peace with this? No.

I imagine my mother frowning down at me from On High. But housework will forever be a thorn in my side. That is until I can afford to have someone come in and do it for me.

Bucket list. For sure.

Edwina Owens Elliott is a visual artist and self-published indie author. She has spent over thirty years in the fashion, beauty, and entertainment industries as an art director, fashion illustrator, and graphic designer. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, WINONA, INC. and Linktree.