So it is no secret among those who know me – and now a few who don’t – that I am the least domestic person I know. I don’t cook much, bake at all, craft, nor do I have any real desire to do these things. I have been known to live with golden retriever tumbleweeds for weeks and equate a quick run around with the Swiffer as a ‘major clean up’.
That’s the old me, in our old house. I hated that house. I never felt like I chose that house. When we bought the business we are currently running, we had only two months to sell our home, buy a home, move, learn the business and put out the October issue of the Connection Newspaper. Really. This while holding down full time jobs until the move date, to make sure we wouldn’t have mortgage issues. No kid at that time: I think we would have gone collectively insane. Anyway, the house we ended up buying was a lesser of many evils of weekend marathon search sessions. It was in the right town and in our price range. Given our time constraints, these became our only requirements.
This summer, 8 years after our original house purchase, we found a house we actually loved. It was updated and clean, with nice bamboo flooring and a bathroom on every floor! With potty training coming up, this house fit us to a tee. After some major wrangling, that I will describe in another post, we moved in. The house was clean and relatively new, and in great shape. Sticking with my usual mantra of ‘start as you mean to finish’, I decided that despite toddler and golden retriever, the house was going to stay in good shape. I have mopped and cleaned and vacuumed ever since.
Why is this fodder for a blog post? Quite simply because of how much my habits have changed since finding a real home, a place I actually want to live in. The only way to make that change perfectly clear is if I tell you my vacuum story. Then you will understand!.
A few years ago, my husband, who is by all accounts the neat one in our odd pairing, bought the mother of all vacuum cleaners. It was big. It was loud. It had headlights. I never went near it. Not out of fear, you understand. Just out of pure indifference. Eventually said vacuum cleaner needed servicing, as apparently they do when you own a golden retriever that sheds by the boatload. My husband took it in to a local shop and when it was time to pick it up, I went along. The gentleman behind the counter took the repair slip and went int the back to retrieve our monster machine. My husband was side tracked, looking at some newer models they had on display. The man brought out the vacuum and placed it on the counter.
“That’s not ours.” I said. This thing didn’t look at all familiar to me.
The guy looked at the receipt and at the machine.
“No. This is yours.”
“It can’t be. I have never seen this machine before in my life.” I was getting a little annoyed, at this point
My husband, having overheard this little interlude, sidled up behind me and said:
“It’s ours, honey. You’d recognize it if you turned it on once in a while.”
I could hear the guy in the store sniggering as we left with our vacuum cleaner.
To go from that, to a woman who mops, vacuums, cleans the kitchen and bathrooms and even does laundry is somewhat of a miracle, don’t you think?