Getting tidy was something I learned how to do. It wasn’t innate. This is a continuation of a ramble from last time. If you haven’t read it, do so now – we’ll wait for you.
So.
My husband comes from a very tidy home – his parents were traditional in that his mother stayed home with the children while his father worked. She cleaned, cooked, mended, gardened, arranged, etc. My darling husband learned all of her tricks. I’ve never met a tidier man.
I felt I had to step up my game when we started living together. A LOT. The good part is, we both appreciate a tidy space. As I worked out easy ways to keep our stuff in order, they were all met by a willing partner. There’s no battle here – I’m not working against someone who doesn’t care whether or not there are clothes all over the place. He hangs up his things and doesn’t leave towels and socks on the floor. He cleans the stove. He uses ALL the attachments that come with the vacuum cleaner. All. Of. Them. He charts his way through the house with all the brushes and other bits tucked into his back pockets all holster-like.
People! He vacuums over the door frames. To say I love this man is a serious understatement.
By the time I entered my early-twenties (before I even met Martin) Martha Stewart was on my radar, BIG TIME. She fascinated me in a way that I hated loving so much. Her ways seemed so antiquated and anti-feminist, and yet I wanted so desperately to have a life like hers. Or rather, one that looked like hers. It kind of became my whole world. What I realise now, is I wanted to keep the happy-smily feeling I got from looking at her orderly closets and cabinets, and not the tired and overwhelmed feeling I got every time I opened ours.
And I wasn’t alone in my love of everything-Martha. In particular, I recall my friend Anny – she and I worked together back in the pre-married/pre-kids days – and we would pour over all the Martha omnimedia available, tearing out recipes, household tips, and craft projects from glossy magazines, and dream of the glory of it all. I swear, it was like playing house, only we were in our mid-twenties and we had some disposable income, so we spent all of our time figuring out how to feather our nests just so. (Oh, and we bought hats too, but that’s an entirely different post.)
Now wait: I’m not crazy or clueless. I know Martha is a completely imaginary person has time, money, and minions to get her bidding done. I’m not foolish. But the woman is an ace at housekeeping. She’s got systems that work – I just wanted to break off a little piece of her concrete ways to act as a foundation for my own beautiful life. And I’ll be the first to admit that she often takes her domestic superiority to a whole ‘nother level (read: ridiculous) but that’s just the way she likes to do it. So just go ahead and fly your freak flag, Martha – you know you want to.
(And you know her freak flag is freshly ironed and probably hand-embroidered too, right? FREAK!!)
What I learned about myself over the years is that walking into my space when it’s cluttered makes me feel anxious and annoyed and stabby. And this is because it’s an instant reminder of chores I have to do. Did I mention that I hate chores? I’m lazy. Really, I am. I HATE chore lists. They make me tired. Chores are haaaaaard. And if procrastination was an Olympic sport, it would be Tracey for the gold, every time. I promise.
So all I need to derail my life is to stop doing a few things for a few days. Piles. Laundry. Clutter. Enter the children: just about everything went to pot in weeks, it seemed. I sighed a lot. I cried a lot.
There just aren’t enough hours in a day, Martha! I don’t care about systems! I don’t care about chore-days-of-the-week stuff! I just want this laundry put away, and something reasonable to eat for dinner, and please oh PLEASE somebody rid me of the dust-bunnies I can see from my permanent spot on the couch, as I am constantlyconstantlyconstantlynursingohmygod…
I’ve learned to scale back my expectations in order to achieve some sanity. I had to let go of the magazine life I wanted. Was that what I was working towards having? Could it be? Isn’t that… um.. kinda crazy?
Well yes, it is kinda crazy! And Crazy is as Crazy does… there’s really no need to print labels for EVERY box/bin/jar in the house, is there? I mean, clearly, this one contains RICE! Do I have to change the sheets twice a week? I wish I could… but no. And if I don’t have a bouquet of fresh eucalyptus hanging from my shower head, will we all suffer from sadness and blocked chi after our un-invigorating showers? I think not. I will never own a craft-sized drill press in order to perfectly pierce-and-string (and later hand stain and buff!) pecans for a Thanksgiving-esque garland. No-one ever should.
Oh, just go to hell with your perfect ways, will you please?
I can’t tell you if she saved my life or ruined it. I just know I still hate loving her so much. Or, perhaps I just love hating her a little bit. I’m not Martha – I never will be, nor do I want to be. That lady is crazy. Oh, and I hear she’s *just a tad* bitchy. Heh.
Everyone’s threshold for “good enough” arrives at a different place. I know where mine is… and it wavers from time to time, if I’m feeling stressed or overloaded, but I know I’ve got what it takes to whip things back into shape when it all feels waaaaay out of line. I do like things to look a certain way most of the time, but I’m better at being okay when it’s not.
It’s not OCD. There’s no compulsion. I visualise how I want my space to look – be it a closet or a kitchen – and I figure out how to make it so. I want it to be as functional AND as beautiful as possible with the least amount of maintenance necessary because I. Hate. Chores. I just want things to look a certain way, and usually it’s a want I can manage.
If you rearrange all the letters in my name, you get Ace Greater Style, which is telling. (And kinda cool, no?) I decided a while back that I’m a Lifestylist and a Closet Shrink, yo – it’s just what I do. So now that you know how crazy my head is, you can hit me up if you have questions about how to get your stuff all sorted out.
My freak flag is flying, high and proud. (Like my bum, circa 1994.) Whatever. My closets are clean, so naturally, this means I WIN at life. Yay for me!
I would LOVE for you to come out here to BC, spend a week at my place helping whip me and my cluttered house into shape! We could collapse on the courch with a bottle of local wine each night and it would be so fun! Maybe there’s a future career in professional organization for you!
Clutttterrrrrrrr, clllluuuuutttttter…..it’s killing me. Alas, I don’t have a Martin, I have a Tasmanian Devil instead. I’m not kidding, I nicknamed him that. I’m in line behind Nancy.
The walls are closing in on me with all our clutter! But I have no time so I can’t care. I force myself not to care.
Oh Christine! I love thee back!!
Really, you just have to do what keeps you sane, right? I hate feeling crazy and unhappy – my shoulders are all up in my ears and my back hurts. Of course, a beach vacation might help that… until then, I’ll just put the clothes in the hamper and stuff. Ack.
Just wait until you meet him, Nancy. It might be concubine time. 😉
Oh Tracy how do I love thee…?
I only have 2 requirements for clean and tidy. Bedrooms and family room.
I spent the entire morning cleaning bedrooms, putting clothes away and tidying toys. I can’t imagine sleeping in a room with clutter. That’s my thing. Tidy bedrooms. How can your mid shut down surrounded by clutter. So I have to make sure the rooms are always tidy
I also can’t sit down and relax at night after the kidsa re all in bed unless the family room is clean. Can’t do it. So I spent 10-15 minutes putting everything where it belongs and then I can put my feet up, grab the laptop and CHILL.
Sean takes care of the kitchen and I do bathrooms when the kids are showering or in the tub.
That’s what works for us…
Martin is getting better looking by the minute.