I have been brought up in a house where dirt, dust and general smelliness is equivalent to laziness and utter lack of hygiene. Eighteen years of watching my mom clean, scrub, polish, and meticulously scrap dirt off minuscule holes has done nothing but make me feel guilty…sometimes. Nowadays, I clean when I have to, wash when I run out of clean utensils, throw when I run out of space. Ok, I’m exaggerating here, but I’m not that far off.
The floors are swept once a week. That too, I don’t sweep under the couch or the table. What I don’t see or feel doesn’t exist. The newspapers and magazines are kept because you never know when I would need that article from three years back. At least hubs has found a use for the day-old papers now – part of a wee wee pad. Did I mention that I still keep notes and textbooks from my college and university years? You never know. Each passing of the season is a changing of the guards. Clothes are switched from woolen winter sweaters to skimpy cotton tops, and then there are those that never get worn, but all the same are kept in the pile. New pieces come in, but the old remains. Just like that, the empire is built. The dishes are never washed immediately after a meal – ONLY when my parents are around is this dutifully done. The dishes can wait until the next day, or maybe the day after. I’ve got enough dishes and utensils to go a while without washing. But that would be just disgusting.