1989. Philadelphia, PA. I am 13. And in 8th grade.
My room looks like a “bomb went off”.
Upstairs in the hall: My mom is telling me I better clean my room before my father throws a snap. (What’s a snap? Not quite sure. I tried very hard not to let my behavior get to that point. My brother Kev has likely seen a few and can probably define it in the comments. Kev?)
Down the hall in his bedroom: My father is *quite* purple with anger (not sunburn) because there are no clean towels. He’s working his way up to ‘snap’. Where are they? Oh, they are strewn about on the teal-colored carpet in my bedroom. Some under the bed. Not washed. And probably sporting that lovely mildewy scent since I didn’t hang them up properly to dry. They are definitely covered with about 12 outfits I tried on that didn’t suit.
Frantic picking up / washing / folding and dusting ensues so I don’t get yelled at and / or so I can hit up the St. Tim’s Dance on Friday (i.e. not get grounded).
Fast forward to today.
2012. Portland, Oregon. I am 36 years old. With a family of my own.
Replace towels with toys and paper (bills, kid art, magazines) and somehow I am in a similar situation.
Only my parents aren’t right down the hall ready to inspect, they are in Pennsylvania. But they are ON THEIR WAY to Oregon.
And I want my house to look nice for their first visit.
I’m quite certain they won’t be inspecting – but I want them to feel welcome. Quite the opposite of the vibe I was throwing out in 8th grade.
The good news my bedroom is now slightly more of a commute than ‘down the hall’. So instead of a few minutes, I have hours. But only a few! And with that, this whirling dervish of cleaning is out!
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