"A Layer of Dust"

  
            I clean.
          When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.
            I clean.
            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.
            I clean.
            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.
            I clean.
            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.
            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.
            A layer of dust.
            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.
            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.
            A layer of dust.
            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.
            A layer of dust.
            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  
 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Some Chores"

         You know them. The chores you must do, but hate to do, so you avoid them until—well, until something goes wrong. Then your evasive maneuvers avalanche into a major problem.

         I could list at least ten household chores I abhor, but recently cleaning the refrigerator climbed onto the top of my list. Usually, I do a “sniff-n-toss” round every Sunday. You know, where I tentatively open every Rubbermaid container, give it a cautious sniff, and toss it if there’s even a hint of spoilage. I do a good job of remembering when I served something and can judge the exact moment when something must meet the garbage disposal. I don’t consider this weekly ritual really cleaning the fridge, though.

         Cleaning the fridge involves taking out every single item from every self and bin, and then scrubbing down the interior. I check for expirations dates, throw out anything that’s resided too long, and reorganize everything into better categories. Currently, I have hot peppers, pickles, relish, and jellies standing next to each other one door cubby. I don’t know why, but it works for me.

         Cleaning the fridge includes emptying the freezer compartment. This task daunts me, so I drag my feet when it comes to doing this. Off-and-on for years, our freezer insists upon dumping water onto the floor. This is the first signal that there’s a clog. If I ignore this warning, the water begins to pool back in the freezer where it becomes a plate of ice, adhering the basket in my freezer to the bottom. Usually, my Type A personality jumps onto this aberration immediately, and I defrost the ice. The cascade of events over the last few months forced me to look the other way, and the thin sheet of ice grew daily until the entire basket filled with ice. Our freezer looked like we’d had a block of ice delivered!

         Last night, armed with heat gun and a pile of towels, David tackled the task of melting our giant ice cube. He added a screw driver to his arsenal and eventually pried the basket from the freezer. While I cleared the basket wires of ice, he cleaned every tube and plug he could find. He muscled the fridge away from the wall and attacked the dusty backside with the vacuum, a chore I’ve neglected for doing for, well—months.

         Now our Admiral sits neatly organized and gleaming inside and out. I tell myself that I’ll keep “on top” of this chore and won’t neglect it again. I promise myself that if I notice a little ice forming on that bottom basked, I’ll flush out the tube and clear out the clog. Yep. That’s my plan.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman