Maquinna's Poop du Jour

Odes to Cleaning Commodes

This morning while listening to NPR, a segment on housework-themed poetry caught my attention. In the last several weeks, I have been aware of a growing, seething resentment towards the dirt and disaster in my house. Unwashed dishes, haphazard piles of recycling, dust and mildew, bathtub rings and the as-yet-unsourced sulphury smell emanating from the water in the kitchen - they all taunt me.

I am not a neat freak, but I do feel far more relaxed in an orderly atmosphere. This means that kitchens and bathrooms especially must be clean and fresh. Everything's put away, or in neat little piles for tending later. Beds are made, floors are swept, and no food is turning into the next super-bug antibiotic in the back of the fridge. Alas, this is not the case in my house.

It's tough these days, with the schedules we keep. It's hard to even find enough time to sleep. And yet, listening to these poems on the radio this morning, I realized what it was that truly bothered me. Housework is never a completed task. It's the greatest act of futility there is. I was reminded of the myth of Sisyphus, doomed by the gods to forever roll the giant stone up the hill, only to have it fall back to the bottom again, and to watch it go, knowing he will have to push it back up again. And again. And again.

It's enough to drive one insane. Other projects have a start, a middle, an end. You never have that complete satisfaction where housework is concerned. No sooner is the counter wiped in the kitchen, then someone comes along and leaves a juice glass on it, staining the formica with a ring of grape.

Just for a moment, couldn't time stand still? Couldn't entropy just turn away from my house, only for a few minutes?

posted by Maquinna @ 12:41 p.m.