The Castle of Eternal Punishment

Pushing that boulder up that hill.

I used to be a sucker for items to address my “I hate cleaning my house/I love a clean house” quandary. An automatic sprayer that would clean my shower like an army of chubby cleaning ladies? A steam mop? A solid cake of cleanser you attach to the inside of the toilet bowl which cleans the bowl with every flush? Yeah, baby! Sign me up!

Then one day the sprayer quit. The steam mop exploded and I barely escaped being burned. The bleach scent of the toilet cleaner in the master bath reached the bedroom and made my husband’s chronic cough even more annoying chronic.

Cleaning house reminds me of (here comes a reference I learned from some of my more literary friends, so be very impressed) King Sisyphus, a wicked king whose punishment was to roll a huge boulder up a hill. then watch it roll back down each time, for eternity.

Eternity. Like keeping a house clean. 

I’ve tried cleaning a little bit each day or doing a major cleaning once a week. And I hate both. Especially cleaning shower stalls. I freaking HATE cleaning the showers. When we had this house built they gave us the option of a third bedroom up in the bonus room. I said, “No thanks. My days of cleaning three toilets are over.” But honestly, I find cleaning toilets a delight—compared to showers.

Also the stove top. I cook a lot and the stove top gets nasty so fast I can’t believe chefs aren’t sneaking in here at night and cooking for an entire restaurant. Finally found a scraper gadget that scrapes off the nasty so I’m much happier at the results when I do clean it, but cleaning it? Still hate it.

Quitting cleaning is not an option. I need my house to be clean. And hiring someone else to do it would mean going back to work to earn the money, which seems a bit drastic to me.

I love my house. I just wish it had a self-cleaning button. Like a dishwasher, just throw in a cleaning tablet, shut the door, and push a button. The world would get along fine without even smaller, smarter cell phones and bigger, smarter TVs. You entrepreneurs, get on that, would you?

Meanwhile, until I win the lottery and hire a cleaning lady you can find me with a Miracle Cloth in one hand, homemade cleaner spray in the other, gagging on vinegar fumes barely beaten back by essential oil scents, pushing that boulder up the hill again and again. 

King Sisyphus of my castle.