The Life Dream Archive

This is a piece I’ve been holding on to for years (since my kids were in elementary school). Today I was inspired by a fellow writer to post this. Hope you can relate. 😀

Phyllis Diller once said, “Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the sidewalk in a blizzard.”

Is it just me or have you ever felt like “Dirty” is actually conspiring against you? As if no matter how much you clean, you’ll never win? There is a war going on in my home. It’s not between me and my children, or even my boyfriend. No, this is between me and Dirty!

On any given day as I suit up with my all natural cleaning products, my vacuum, and an iron-willed determination to rid the house of squalor, the onslaught begins. Quietly at first, it materializes in the Little Stains on the carpet, whispering their disappointment.

“How you could you have missed us? Tsk, tsk!”

Then the Dirty Laundry taunts me, piling up in flaccid indifference. Like wallowing swine, it revels in repose.

The Dust leers at me, collecting itself on every prone surface. I dust away that which I know full well will return in only moments. In the shadows, it accumulates, waiting for me to falter, building its mite-ridden legion.

Every room of my home is a battlefield.

The kitchen burgeons with self-indulgent villains. As I step onto the Linoleum, it provokes me, flagrantly flaunting every splatter and crumb. The Dirty Dishes breed on the counter. Yet the clean ones hide, discreetly tucked away in cupboards. But not the Dirty Dishes, they simply wait by the ‘pool’ for me to massage the food off their porcelain skins. In the corner the Garbage Can, always protected by its liner, somehow still manages to attract the nastiest of odors. Mystery liquids collect inside it, inundating the house with toxic gases.

But the most maniacal of household hooligans is both devious and ubiquitous, manipulating the best of my intentions. The Clutter is everywhere. Often, it can be hard to tell if an item is part of the Clutter or if it is something more important: perhaps a bill, a coupon or a progress report. If I wait too long to decide they will multiply.

Worst of all I am betrayed by my own children’s unwitting allegiance to Dirty. Their loyalty is most apparent in their bedrooms. Items discovered and treasured–if only for a moment–are hoarded there. Their collections of random artifacts: paper clips, stones, crumpled leaves, wrappers, shells, dried-up snails and other knick-knacks have formed a bond of profane chaos. In the wee hours of the morning I imagine these baubles striking alliances with the Dust, becoming eager accomplices to Dirty’s work.

As toddlers, my children brought two of the most unholy warriors into the fray. The most depraved warlords of house: the Pee-Pee and the Poo-Poo. Walking by my son’s room, the Pee-Pee or the Poo-Poo (or both, as they often travel together) would waft evil tendrils at my nose. The hunt would begin. Of course they would not be in a diaper or the toilet. Oh no! Following their vapor trail, I would find these two consorting in the Lego box, taking a cat nap on the carpet, or crouched for attack in the closet. These days though, these foul foes are confined to one room: the most dangerous of all battlefields.

The most active frontline of our home is the Bathroom. Here the little black hairs taunt me, spending their last moments curled in defiance on the tiles. The dribbles from misaligned toilet adventures whirl up their pungent, yellow reek. The mirror languishes behind water spots and toothpaste splashes, as the toilet revels in its ring-around-the-collar.

In cacophony, the legion of Dirty calls out to me:

“Go ahead and clean, we’ll just infiltrate again soon. You shall never defeat us!”

Deep down I know it’s true. Here and there I win small victories. They are short-lived, but divine: a freshly vacuumed carpet with the vacuum that we looked at from Central Vacuums Atlanta, GA after it was recommended to us by a friend and a pristine bathroom mirror. Sometimes in the still moments, when the house has just been cleaned I relax, kick my feet up and sip some tea. These are the moments I must remember during the dark times, when I’m dug in, in a swirl of dust, scouring away.

Yet no matter how many battles I win, it comes to this: I will never defeat Dirty for good. So if you ever visit, please know Dirty and I have reached a truce. The battles are fewer now. And as much as it may irk me, I know someday when I’m old, I will not regret my decision to fill my hours with those I love, rather than constantly battling an enemy whom I can never truly defeat.

 

The impropriety, Bill sniffed, that guy needs to get his woman under control. He glanced at Iris as they made their evening stroll down Michigan Avenue to the L. To him it appeared that she barely registered the couple arguing outside the bank. She hadn’t even turned her head. He figured that was good, that she was probably thinking about the bed-skirt she had just ordered from Sears. Why a bed needed a skirt though, he did not know.
Bill’s wingtips crunched on the wet sidewalk, in rhythm with the dull slap of Iris’ flats. He liked the sound of synchrony.

At least she’s speaking up, thought Iris as they approached the arguing couple. She didn’t think it would do much good, but she felt for the woman. For an instant, she admired the woman’s baby-blue raincoat and noticed how it complimented her copper hair and angry eyes. Given the man’s suit, she assumed he had probably squandered the couple’s money. Iris thought of the jar of cash hidden under her own marital bed. Bill would never look there. He would never make the bed. She let out a snicker, quickly covering it with her hand. Bill didn’t notice.

Bill noticed the redhead’s crimson lips and long stems. Never make a pretty woman your wife, he thought. But guilt pricked him. He had to admit Iris was pretty, but in a more sensible way, with her long chestnut hair and modest makeup. She was the kind of woman who makes a good wife.

The man loomed over the redhead; his arms on either side of her against the stone wall of the bank. The redhead’s face contorted, as if she were yelling at him, but her voice was barely audible.

“How could you?” she said, like air from a punctured tire.

Iris’ foot slipped on the wet cement. She lurched. Bill reached for her, but she recovered her own footing.

“Thank you dear.”

Iris wondered what the man had done to the redhead. It seemed to be something so bad that the woman couldn’t wait for the privacy of home. She wondered if perhaps it had just been the last in a series of unkindnesses. Or perhaps the woman had just reached her breaking point. Iris knew she would soon reach hers. But she told herself, not until the day her degree was finished and her cash jar was full. She would not yell at Bill on the street. She would handle Bill differently.

Leaving the arguing couple behind, Bill’s thoughts turned to supper.

“Are we having your famous meatloaf tonight, dear?”

Iris nodded as a crooked smile crept across her sensible face.

 

(This piece was created from a prompt. The goal was to tell a story based on the exquisite Vivian Maier photo that appears above).

I am reading Amy Poehler’s Yes, Please right now [love]. I especially enjoyed the preface, entitled “Writing is Hard: a Preface.”

This year more than others I’m intimately aware of that statement. Writing a book is a bitch, but one that is worth it.  The thing is it’s not about the result–it’s about the work. There is beauty, bloody guts and somehow magic in it. And when you are doing something you love, even when it’s hard, it fulfills like nothing else.

Here are some words, better than what I have for you, from Amy Poehler’s preface:

“So what do I do? What do we do? How do we move forward when we are tired and afraid? What do we do when the voice in our head is yelling that WE ARE NEVER GONNA MAKE IT? How do we drag ourselves through the muck when our brain is telling us youaredumbandyouwillneverfinishandnoonecaresanditistimeyoustop?

Well, the first thing we do is take our brain out and put it in a drawer. Stick it somewhere and let it tantrum until it wears itself out. You may still hear the brain and all the shitty things it is saying to you, but it will be muffled, and just the fact that it is not in your head anymore will make things seem clearer. And then you just do it. You just dig in and write it. You use your body. You lean over the computer and stretch and pace. You write and then cook something and write some more. You put your hand on your heart and feel it beating and decide if what you wrote feels true. You do it because the doing of it is the thing. The doing is the thing. The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing. That is what I know. Writing the book is about writing the book.

So here we go, you and me. Because what else are we going to do? Say no? Say no to an opportunity that may be slightly out of our comfort zone? Quiet our voice because we are worried it is not perfect? I believe great people do things before they are ready…”

Keep it up my friends! Find that thing you believe in doing and do the hell out of it! Happy New Year.  Here’s to many wonderful years to all of us!

Mariah Carey’s self-titled album (her debut album actually) was the first CD I owned.  I can still remember sitting on our back deck one summer, at dusk. Our brand new black boombox that had a–wait for it–CD player, was set near the steps.  I peeled the cellophane wrapper of the CD and in a rare moment of secular-music-listening-pleasure, I heard Mariah’s stunning voice, clearer than any radio broadcast.

I still love me some Mimi (even though she ditched her curly hair) and when this song popped up on my Pandora feed today I just had to share with you.  It is one of my faves from that era.  A time in my life when I felt small, but had big dreams.

So keep going y’all!  I know I am.  I am making this happen. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I am living to my potential.  I hope you are too!

“If you believe in yourself enough

And know what you want
You’re gonna make it happen
Make it happen”