My entire family was supposed to go to the Cape this weekend, but alas, torrential rains in the morning prevented that; I had just settled down on the couch in the hopes of watching Dogma without having my dad sitting in the room and making jokes about my choice of film, regardless of the fact that he saw it before I did, when my parents came back form breakfast or something and Daddy plopped down in his big chair and that was the end of that.
I was really, really hoping I'd get some time to myself. I wanted to clean the house without people around. You know, I got halfway through cleaning the kitchen today and took an hour break, and when I returned there was a whole new set of pots to clean? And then, no sooner had I cleaned the counter tops than Shrewd went and made bread, flouring the counter top as she went, and then Mummy made dinner and the kitchen's most likely a complete mess again. You know, just once, just ONCE, I would like to clean the kitchen one day, come down the next morning, and see a clean kitchen. Just ONCE. Plus I can't clean the family room at all when Daddy's home because his butt's glued to that easy chair and he complains if I walk in front of the TV, and the Brother (who admittedly isn't home until tomorrow, but still) messes up the living room the second he comes home from school, by dumping his stuff in there, and Shrewd's using that for her computer anyway.
And I'm sure that Shrewd will read this and come tell me off for complaining that the house is messy when I'm kind of messy myself, but the truth is, I clean up my stuff within 24 hours or so provided it does not get buried under mountains of other crap. Like my laundry, which I dumped on the couch, folded, and set aside for to bring upstairs when I went. When I went to bring it upstairs, it had been sat on multiple times and buried under other, unfolded laundry. This sort of thing happens a lot and the truth is, it depresses me, and does not make me feel particularly inclined to keep my things neat.
You know what? I do have an opinion on something, and it's not an opinion that I borrowed from my mother or a friend or anything. It's something that's just uniquely me. I don't like to have to wash a pot in order to cook dinner; I'm of the opinion that the washing of dishes should occur AFTER the meal, not before. I don't like people to sit on my laundry or abandon their own laundry on the couch, unfolded, or take my stuff out of the dryer, not inform me of the action, and then proceed to let people sit on it and knock it on the floor for quite some time before I realize it's mine and practically have to wash it again. I'm sick of sticking my hands on counter tops and removing it to find jam or olive oil on it and I'm really sick of my feet sticking to the floors. I hate pulling my sister's hair from the drain before I shower, and then pulling my own out afterwards, and the fact that there are twenty well-formed red hairballs in the corner of the tub.
I'm not a neat freak, my room is terribly cluttered. Books, papers, stuffed animals and pillows are scattered on the floor. Clutter's fine, especially if it's clutter in one person's individual space. What I'm sick of is butter on my mail and peanut shells sticking to my feet as I walk. I get that they're busy, but I don't care, I should be able to read a magazine that doesn't have a polka-dotted oil stain on the cover!
And dear GOD I should be able to clean a kitchen and have it last as at least reasonably clean for longer than two hours.
I've been home for three weeks and I'm already sick of the place. It's going to be a long summer.