My mom, God rest her soul, was a clean freak. Not a neat freak, mind you. But a clean freak. In a farm house with 4 boys, there’s a certain amount of disorder that’s just inevitable. But the dictum to “take off your garsh-dang pig-shitty boots outside the front door before you come into MY kitchen?” Well, that’s an iron-clad non-negotiable fiat to be ignored only at one’s own mortal peril. You been warned, son.
This clean freak trait, handed down (I am convinced) genetically, has stood me in good stead as an Airbnb host. When asked one time by my mother-in-law if my Airbnb co-host daughter (who sadly lacks the clean freak gene) had things ready for the next incoming guest, I replied, “Well, she does have it clean. But it’s not exactly Marzella-clean.” Know what I mean Jelly Bean?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying anything about moral virtue here. In a reticent farm-family culture where “I love you” is uttered with roughly the same frequency as “You’ve just won the lottery,” crisp sheets and sparkling linoleum floors stand in stead for more verbal forms of affection. So, if by “clean” you mean “loved?” Then I grew up the most beloved kid on the planet – bar none.
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All of this came home to me today in a very personal way when I stumbled across this story in the NY Times. Titled – what else? – “How to Clean Your Home For Coronavirus,” it made me run to the kitchen cabinet to make sure I had the right disinfectant. Sure enough, I did.
So anyway – THANKS, MOM! And Airbnb guests? You can rest easy. Because as long as I’m still standing upright on Terra Firma, it’s gonna be Marzella-clean – and no messing around. Get it? Got it. Gooooood.
Funny to read this tonight. I spent a good part of today deep cleaning the kitchen. Even got Eric engaged at some point. My mother was a Lysol freak. I still remember the smell. I do like bleach though. My daughter said they know when I’m anxious because i start polishing the copper pots. I’m not sure if they are correct, but I do like the copper pots to be shiny.