Cleanliness Makes Me Less of an Oscar the Grouch

Every day, I find reasons to tidy up my home. Whether it is the mounds of clothes I wear that find a place outside the clothes hamper or the stinking trash can that appears repugnant before I can recognize the smell. My sniffer is a keen detection system. Whatever the chore, I usually jump right on it.

I use an O-Cedar mop and bucket twice a week. Using some cleaning solution that I concocted, the apartment smells chemically fresh. The laminate flooring throughout my place makes the flooring look shiny and expensive. Having the right resources allows me to quickly deal with grim, dirt, dust, and filth. I live alone, and that makes ownership of these inconveniences my responsibility.

I wash my dishes by hand. My elbow produces enough energy to account for even the toughest baked-on goo. I carefully inspect the dishes before placing them in the strainer. Sometimes, I even put the dishes away directly after scrubbing them, but I do not always follow through. It is my mood that dictates every action. They hang around in the strainer, awaiting my use. I utilize the same items over and over again—day after day. A clean dish prevents bacteria from finding its way into my body. Gross!

Laundry is a neverending story. I do a load every other day. I confess that separating the colors from the whites is not a practice I partake in. Oh well, I have yet to change the color of my socks and tee shirts. Maybe I am doing something right. At least I fold each item neatly and put them where they belong. It turns out that I can only use Tide. The other soaps cause me to break out in hives. Being a tested subject was never comfortable for me, but I survived.

Cleaning my home will be something I do until the end of my existence. I will probably be on my deathbed with a feather duster that forces the idea that dust mites are crawling on me. I would not classify myself with obsessive-compulsive disorder, but an organized space to live in does have its helpful benefits.

Doing these chores has become involuntary but necessary to my nature as a human. Sure, some people can happily live in their garbage, but I am no Oscar the Grouch.