I used to think that when the house got too dirty, my husband would take one look at it and decide that instead of cleaning it himself, now was the perfect time to royally piss me off.
Because boy can I clean in a rage.
As my temper explodes like Mount Vesuvius, violently spewing forth a deadly cloud of super-heated gases high into the sky, ejecting molten rock, pulverized pumice and hot ash at 1.5 million tons per second, the tiniest thing out of place becomes a target.
I clean the kitchen with loud determination. I wipe surfaces clean of dust with forceful intent. I aggressively vacuum carpets to within an inch of their lives.
I deposit trash by the front door with a fury and purpose that would make Lyssa, the ancient Greek goddess for mad rage, envious.
The house becomes a scene from a disaster movie, with children and spouses running barely ahead of the impending doom, squealing in terror and picking up favourite toys and clothes before they’re sucked into the cleaning tornado never to be seen again.
And oh the humanity, the socks. 🙉
Socks EVERYWHERE.
Balled up in the couch. Shoved into bookshelves. Left on top of shoes. Lounging casually on stairs. Reposing under the kitchen table. Thrown over the armrest of the easy chair. And very rarely in pairs, like they were never meant to have mates.
I think a messy kitchen and dishes left all over the house are my biggest triggers these days.
That, and stepping on Legos. There’s nothing like a Lego underfoot to make the rage travel instantly from that pointy sonofabitch up your body until the top of you head blows off like a cartoon.
What about you? What makes you scrub the house like the whole damn thing needs to be sent to its room and think about what it did?
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