It might as well be Spring

I've been Spring cleaning this week. And look at me, not giving a toss that it’s September, and not even remotely Spring. Because frankly, I am just as happy to Spring clean when it's not Spring, as I am to completely ignore any actual form of cleaning when it is.

It's like this: Seasons don’t get to dictate how I'm running my life… mostly.

Now I admit, it’s not been entirely easy. Here in Tweddley Manor, we’re all still recovering from whatever fresh Hell that last Mercury Retrograde was. We are at least now all COVID-free, but we’re still attempting to fix everything around the house that conspiratorially decided in unison to break.

Mostly, we’ve been successful, but the dishwasher is still holding out. (Word of advice: do yourself a favor and never buy a Whirlpool dishwasher from the Costco.)

All sorts of people have been round to fix all sorts of parts of it, claiming success. Victoriously, they put the machine on for a clean cycle and it works perfectly… until the moment after they leave, when it breaks again in some epic display of drama.

I don’t mean to boast, but it is currently considered a bit of an enigma in the dishwashery world. Just about every single part of it has been replaced. The warranty company is on first-name terms with Mark, as are many local dishwasher repair people. That little Whirlpool has had more surgeries than Cher.

Finally this week, a new dishwasher repair man who had just arrived - foolishly believing he could be the one to conquer the beast - turned on the machine with much enthusiasm. After several minutes there was an ominous kerplunk. The new dishwasher man paled and announced solemnly that the motor had gone.

Mark called the warranty people. They were understandably more than a little disappointed. They had to go and talk to their higher-ups because our dishwasher is a special case.

It seems that in life, there are some things that are completely unfixable. Our dishwasher appears to be one of them. It languishes in the kitchen - the Moby Dick to Mark’s Captain Ahab. Mark stoically hand washes every dish -because apparently nobody else in the house can do it properly- all the while eyeing the dishwasher, with a burning disgust.

For that reason, in terms of cleaning, I’ve found it wise to give the kitchen a wide berth.

There are plenty of other parts of the house to be cleaned though, and after last week’s COVID, I am the woman to be taking that on. Because frankly, there’s nothing like sitting on your backside, unable to muster the energy to do anything but sniffle and breathe heavily like a sex pest, to get you noticing every single fleck of dust.

People underestimate cleaning, but really it’s an extreme sport. It’s like real-life whack-a-mole: You clean something, and then turn your back and it's dusty again. So I am very very busy.

And aside from the general dusting and wiping, my friend lent me her carpet cleaner.

Another word of advice: In terms of friendships, it is always a brilliant thing to have the kind of friend who owns a carpet cleaner. That way you can borrow it, knowing you have a limited period to get the job done. Because honestly, I know for a fact, that if I owned my own actual carpet cleaner, that sucker would permanently sit in the shed and my carpets would stay filthy.

Point is: It’s a good thing to have time constraints… mostly.

I have made a solemn vow that, before I give it back in a week, every single surface - from rugs to chairs - is going to be cleaned.

Not everyone in the house is a fan of my obsession. Arthur is finding my change in energy unnerving, and manoeuvers himself into spaces I'm about to work on, with a “Why don't we just snuggle up and eat snacks like we used to last week?” expression.

Occasionally, Mark appears and suggests I might be overdoing it a bit. And whenever he does, I ask him if we’re allowed to buy a new dishwasher yet, and that gets him scurrying back to the kitchen pretty sharpish.

And yes, what with life, and getting back to feeling well again, and catching up with work, and the guys doing school and college, it’s a lot. And I've barely time to think. But I like that. Because really, who needs time to think? Thinking is overrated. It’s the same with feeling, that's overrated too.

My Aunty Irene died this week, and I have a ton of feelings I don't want to have. She was bright and beautiful and fun. She had red hair and a brilliant laugh and she was the best kind of aunty to drink wine and have a gossip with. And then the years took her and wore her down. Because time gets everyone in the end.

Just a couple of years ago, we danced at her wedding. Maybe a month or two ago she held Lachlan as a baby, and he laughed his first laugh. But Lachlan is 17 now, and she and I will never dance together again.

She lived in Glasgow and I live in California, so I could pretend it really didn’t happen. It would be easy. I could just ignore the fact. But then, when I next visit Scotland, I’ll be looking for her and she won’t be there. Because she's gone to where so many people I’ve truly loved have gone. And I don’t know how to feel.

Supposedly time will heal, but what if I don't want it to heal? What if I don't want to be alright with it? What if I don't want to accept it, like I don't really truly accept the others who have gone? What if I'm not ok with it? Because I'm not ok. Not with any of them.

And yes, I know it's the changing of the seasons, but what if the seasons are just fucking wrong?

So I Spring fucking clean. And I don’t give a toss that it’s not even Spring.

I am trying to persuade Arthur to move out of the way so I can clean the big rug in the living room. He's having none of it. Not even the promise of snacks will help. He lies there, resolutely sporting his “I'm adorable. Cuddle me” look.

Mark appears and tells me the warranty people have messaged. They accept the dishwasher has met its demise. They wish to arrange a time to discuss its replacement. Mark is neither happy nor sad. He is over it. I am too.

We both know that when that dishwasher leaves the house we will never think of it again - apart from to laugh occassionally at the ridiculousness of it all. We will not care where that dishwasher goes to. We will move on. We will get on with our lives. We will replace it with something better. It will willfully be forgotten.

Because you can do that with things.

But never with people.

I am sad and sore and angry. I want to rage at the Seasons and shake my fist, and demand they bring the Springtime back, when we were all together and there were light April showers and the promise of sun.

Of course, I know the Seasons will not listen. They just change.

So I must ultimately come to accept what is. Somehow.

But for now, I'll clean.

Xo

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