Homemaking Unplugged

        The filter cleaning was disgusting.  Truly disgusting. And for the first time, I feel a little annoyed with Martha. I mean, there are some things that one is better off knowing, and if not for Martha, I might have gone my whole life without knowing that my range hood filters were filled with a black, greasy gunk. And I might have died happier for it. Really. Learning about the filters and then seeing them was like being told that your favorite outfit makes you look fat -- and then realizing that it's true.  It's something you don't quickly get over. So, dear Martha, I can't say I'm grateful for yesterday's experience, in any way.  

       Still, as my month is drawing to a close, I did continue to look for other bits of advice that might not involve nauseating discoveries in the kitchen. And here is a simple one I am going to do.

       Martha suggests that when using a power strip to plug in various electric devices, one should attach tags to the various plugs to identify what device each plug relates to.  She even suggests using as labels the little plastic tags from bread bags -- after writing on them more pertinent information than the "best before" date.

       This does seem like a good idea to me -- the labeling that is.  As I am on a low-carb diet, collecting bread bag tags really isn't worth the cost, effort or carbohydrates.  However, I really should label our cords...

       Recently, when I was changing our sheets, an excess of static electricity in the bedding shocked my bedside clock into showing the wrong time.  For some reason, the same shock also made inoperable the buttons that would allow me to correct the time. I suspected that if I simply unplugged the clock, it would likely re-set everything and allow me to start afresh. But as the clock was plugged into a power cord with several other items, and the power cord was pushed behind the bed, I knew it would be something of a hassle to reach, find and unplug the right cord.  And I just wasn't up for it.  

       Instead, I simply adjusted my time expectations for the next several days. When I wanted to wake up at 6:30 a.m., I set the alarm instead for 11:07 p.m.  If I woke up unexpectedly at 8:49 p.m., I could comfortably roll over, knowing I still had over two hours left to sleep. This may sound like lunacy, but it did seem easier than hunting for the right cord.

       So tomorrow, I am going to label my cords, but without bread bag tags. Instead, after another trip to The Container Store, I now have a set of specially-designed, multi-colored tags that I can label and twist around the various electric cords -- not only in the bedroom, but also in my home office and behind my television.  

      

       Part of me wonders if the time I will spend labeling will truly  be worth it.  Wouldn't it just be easier to unplug the wrong cord now and then?  

       Maybe. But at least this way, I'll always know what time it is.

Ventilation Hood Filters?

       I have never claimed to be a mechanical engineer.  So perhaps I can be excused for not realizing that the ventilation hood above my range has removable filters.  

       Martha's Homekeeping Handbook advises that these filters should be cleaned monthly.  I had the hood installed nearly six years ago, and have never done this task, or even thought of doing this task.

       To be fair to myself, I don't use the ventilation hood as much as I should, preferring instead to allow cooking smoke and odors to waft throughout our home.  So let's say I use the hood five days per month, out of a potential 30 days.  Based on those figures, it would surely be wrong to say that I had missed 72 monthly ventilation hood cleanings. Rather, dividing 72 by my truly disproportional disuse of the hood, perhaps I am down to 12 missed cleanings. And I haven't had the hood for six whole years yet! So maybe it can be considered only 11 missed cleanings. And frankly, I travel a lot -- perhaps an entire month in total each year -- so that would reduce the missed cleanings to maybe only ten.  Ten is a nice round, clean number. How bad could it be?

       I removed the filters a few minutes ago, expecting to be able to quickly rinse them under running water and then replace them.  But they were a wee bit sticky, and the blackish gunk in them didn't seem to be coming off at all.  

       So now I'm soaking them in a sink with hot water and dishwashing liquid, as Martha suggests. I think I may have to leave them there for a few weeks.

School for Guys

       I have long suspected that at some point in his pre-Brenda past, Tom attended "guy school".  At this secret academy, Tom and other guys like him learned to be so spectacularly inept at simple household tasks that they would never be asked to do them again.

       I have actually inquired about the curriculum at this school, but Tom refuses to talk about it, just as he still refuses, even after 15 years of marriage, to tell me the words to his secret fraternity pledge. Perhaps the two are even related, and the lessons in ineptitude are part of the fraternity hazing process. However it happened, the training is evident, particularly when it comes to loading the dishwasher.

       When Tom loads the dishwasher, he randomly scatters dishes, glasses, bowls and pans across the interior. Glasses might be placed lying down on the bottom rack of the dishwasher, or hanging haphazardly over the prongs on the top. A single cookie sheet might be laid over the entire bottom rack, meaning nothing else can be placed there at all. And when I try to tell him there is another way, he just walks away, his actions telling me that if I don't like the way he does things, maybe I should just do it myself. Surely this is the ultimate goal of the Guy Academy program. But since Martha had had a positive influence on our life recently, I figured that her expert advice might finally override his training. Among other things, Martha advises the following:

• Delicate dishes and glassware should be placed in the upper rack
  
• Place everything in the upper rack facedown; everything in the lower rack facing the center
• Don't place items over the prongs on the upper rack.  Glasses and mugs should go in the rows between the prongs while bowls should be placed in the center.

      

       This picture shows the way things should look. 

       When I shared these rules with Tom last week, he walked away, showing his training remained highly effective. But when I told these rules to my father-in-law the night before last, as he loaded the dishwasher, he loudly exclaimed, "Martha says that?" He then yelled excitedly to my mother-in-law , "Hey, did you know that Martha Stewart says that glasses are not supposed to go across the prongs? They're supposed to go between them!" 

       I was pleased to have been able to impart this important life knowledge with him just prior to his 75th birthday...until I noticed that he continued to place the remaining glasses and mugs in the dishwasher at random, some across the prongs, some lying down, and maybe one or two in the rows between the prongs.

       I suspect now that in addition to ineptness lessons, guy school also teaches acting skills.  If anyone has more information on this secret training, kindly post it below. 

What Now?

       Someone I had formerly thought of as a friend, e-mailed me recently to ask where I was going next on my cleaning plan. She pointed out that I had spent most of the month dealing with the six issues Martha said should be done daily. Wasn't it time to move on to Martha's much longer list of 37 weekly cleaning tasks? 

       This list includes tasks like "vacuum upholstery and floor" in living room, "empty trash bin" in home office, "wipe mirrors" in bathrooms, and so on. I am pleased to report that I already performed pretty much all of the 37 tasks even before I started "going Martha". And ones that I wasn't doing -- wiping the inside of the oven and microwave, for example -- I am doing now. 

       Perhaps that is part of the reason Martha's book appealed to me. It isn't called a "Housecleaning Handbook" or even a "Homemaking Handbook". Rather it appeared to me to be a handbook for "keeping" a home a home. For me, the daily tasks were what was keeping my otherwise clean home from feeling that way.

       That doesn't mean there isn't more to learn from Martha's 744-page tome. Indeed, the book is full of advice on matters ranging from how to clean a computer mouse, to how to fold a sweater (for those of us who haven't yet worked at The Gap), to how to fix the float ball in a toilet.  So for the remainder of the month, I am going to share some of these additional tidbits of advice offered by Martha and her staff. 

Tomorrow: Loading the Dishwasher -- The Guy Way vs. The Martha Way. 

Injury and Lawsuit!

       It was a dark and stormy morning, but the dog needed to go out. So I stumbled out of bed, pulled on some jeans that had intentionally been left crumpled on the floor nearby, and cried out in pain as I felt my thigh being cut.  

       Now, I am not one to cry out, ordinarily. I can stub my toe, or burn my hand on the oven, without making a peep. But this morning, I was too sleepy, or perhaps too shocked, to hold back. 

       I reached into my jeans pocket to see what had stabbed me. A pin maybe? What I pulled out instead was a single tablet of Advil Cold medicine, in one of those small, hard "blister packs". 

       Then I remembered. Last night, while leaving the kitchen, I had looked back to take a quick look around, exactly like Martha had advised, to look for anything that "isn't where it should be." Seeing the lone tablet on the kitchen island, I had pocketed it before heading to bed. Looking down at my thigh this morning, I saw a long, angry line where it had scraped into my flesh. 

       Tom, normally not one for empathy (perhaps that's why I ordinarily don't bother to yell?) got out of bed to see what the problem was. "Jesus CHRIST!" he bellowed, when he saw my thigh.  By this time, blood was beginning to seep out of the full length of the slash. "That must be eight inches long!" he yelled. I showed him the tiny pack of Advil Cold medicine. "LAWSUIT!" he screamed.

       At this, the dog, who by now had been startled four times over, began jumping up and down. We knew this meant either that she agreed with Tom's demand for justice, or that she had to pee really, really soon. So Tom said he would take her out, while I cleaned and dressed my bloody thigh.

       With the two of them gone, I considered doing some shredding, but instead contemplated my lawsuit. Maybe if I sued Martha, we could come to an amicable out-of-court settlement, whereby she would autograph the front of my Homekeeping Handbook, let Olympia play with her dogs, and maybe offer some personal instruction on cake-decorating?

       In preparation for filing my complaint with the court, I re-read the advice that had led directly to my massive, gaping wound and the horrific pain and suffering I was now experiencing.

       "Take a quick look around for anything that isn't where it should be. Pick it up and put it where it belongs." Put it where it belongs? You mean Martha doesn't say to look around for anything that isn't where it should be and then put it in the pocket of your jeans? 

       Had Martha's highly-paid attorneys already got to the book and cleverly re-edited it? I mean, if I had known the pill was supposed to go back into the box from whence it came, surely I would have done that. I will put into evidence my long record of flawless housekeeping to show my pattern of direct obedience to Martha.

       Or maybe I'll just go downstairs and start the coffee. At least Tom is out in the rain with Olympia, instead of me.

Clutter's Last Stand

       Thanks to Martha, and a little personal effort, things are going pretty well around here.  The kitchen is staying clean, the mail is sorted, the bed is made, spills are wiped up when they happen.  Even the dog has had a bath. 

       The paperwork, in particular, is clearly heading in the right direction.  I still have some work to do, but I am beginning to sense a zen state, ohm-ing in the distance.

       The last major element I must address again pertains to clutter -- but not the paper-blob type.  Instead, I'm referring to the simple kind of clutter -- the coat left unhung, the newspaper left spread on the table, the dirty sock that didn't quite make it to the laundry hamper.  Martha says whenever you leave a room, "take a quick look around for anything that isn't where it should be. Pick it up and put it where it belongs. Insist that everyone in the household do the same."

        Yeah, good luck with that.

        But I'm going to give it a try. The difficulty will be explaining this rule to Tom without sounding accusatory.

        The fact is that this sort of clutter is as much my fault as his. Indeed, we seem to feed off each other. When our home is extraordinarily clean, Tom is extraordinarly careful to keep it that way. But as soon as I leave my coat hung casually over a chair (only for a moment, because I'll be heading out soon, and will surely need it again), he leaves out not only a coat, but also a suit jacket and some stuff he emptied from his briefcase. And then I leave some unfolded laundry and a serving platter that I can't put away unless I stand on a chair. And then he leaves his sweatshirt, two magazines and nine business cards. You get the picture.

       So we're both going to have to work together on this, starting today.  I wish Martha had a more detailed plan on how to make it work -- something with slots and categories and such, like she provided for the mail sorting.  

       But I guess I'll just have to wing it.  I'll keep you posted...

Shredding the Past, Doggie-Style

       My Dad called a couple of days ago to suggest that the purchase of a shredder might help address my overwhelming paper issue.  Indeed, a shredder can be useful not only to destroy unnecessary documents, but also to protect one from identity theft. And we have, in fact, had a shredder for years.  Our problem is using it.

       For the last five years, we have had the joy of living with our nearly perfect dog, Olympia. Despite her grand-sounding name, we have taken to calling her "Mouse" because she is frightened of many things -- vacuums, brooms, mops, skateboards, garbage trucks, buses, fireworks, thunder, rain on the windows, creaking sounds from wind, the movement of blinds in a gentle breeze, and, of course, paper shredders.  

       We have tried to overcome these fears in any number of ways advised by dog specialists, but to no avail. So we have adjusted our lives, instead. What this means is that not only do I have to keep a cautious eye out for garbage trucks on our morning walks and "hide" with her in a closet during thunderstorms, I also have to avoid shredding paper in her company. Martha would be pleased that I already have an organized system to deal with this -- a small wicker basket where I put all the items I want to shred. (Since I file nearly everything, this basket does not contain many full documents, but does include items like the envelopes those documents come in, credit card applications, and of course, the labels that come on our pizza delivery boxes. The fact that we live at our address and order double cheese on our pizzas is surely a matter some identity-thief would be interested in.)  

       So, when Tom takes Olympia for her night-time walk, I often try to shred some of these gathered documents, if I am not otherwise busy sweeping, mopping, vacuuming and airing out our home.  To be honest, I find it hard to keep up, and the basket frequently overflows.

       Now that I have several years of irrelevant bills and other paperwork to destroy, I fear my night-time shredding system will be entirely overwhelmed. And really, with possibly several thousand pages to shred, is my seven-sheet shredder really the most efficient way?

       A search on Google, and one phone call later, I have the answer. A local mobile shredding company advised that I can bring my papers to a suburban location between 8 and 8:30 a.m. and have my papers shredded in front of me for only $6 per box.  Six dollars for a standard sized storage box!  It may cost me over $6 in gas to get there, and I'll have to get up extra early to do it, and I'll have to drive through rush hour traffic for about an hour to get there. 

       But nonetheless, I have a plan that will protect both my sanity and that of my otherwise perfect dog.

       I love you, sweetheart. Yes, I do. Who's the best dog in the whole world? You are! Good girl...

A New Day

       

       

        I am overwhelmed by the events of the day.  With regrets to Martha, this is a day for celebration -- not for cleaning.

       They say that President Obama's children, Sasha and Malia, will be making their own beds in the White House. I wish them eight years of joy in this task. And I wish them the freedom, when they are adults, to choose not to make their beds.

Presidential Libraries and My Household Archives

       Over the last few years, Tom and I have been on a quest to visit all U.S. Presidential Libraries.  I know that probably sounds terribly geeky, but we find them quite interesting.  Each offers not only perspective into the personal and political lives of the particular President, they also provide valuable historical background into the political environment and issues of the time.

       Other people use Presidential Libraries for research purposes, as these sites contain archives of the documents seen and created by the Presidential administration. Indeed, according to a federal law passed in 1978, all presidential records must be preserved -- from handwritten notes, to text records, to audio-visual material to classified documents. A 60,000 square foot archive has already been created to store the records of out-going President George W. Bush, pending the creation of his library.

       What does this have to do with me and my filing issues? Not much, actually. 

       Let's face it. I am not now, nor have I ever been, the President of the United States. I am pretty sure no federal law will ever require that I preserve every bank statement or cable bill related to my household administration. So why am I keeping all of my records? Why?

       This has to stop. 

       In her Homekeeping Handbook, Martha provides rules for preserving documents, and they are not new to me. But since Martha is guiding my life for this month, it's finally time to pay attention. Basically, birth certificates, passports, marriage certificates and the like should be kept indefinitely -- hopefully in a safe deposit box. Matters like mortgage records, real estate deeds, vehicle titles, and investment information should be kept as long as they are active. Income tax records and anything related to them should be kept for seven years. Most everything else can be thrown out after one year!

       So now, I have a lot of un-filing to do. 

       I am sure I will face moments of regret or uncertainty. What if someone needs to know, for some reason, at some future date, that a long distance phone call to my parents in January, 2004 lasted 16 minutes and 43 seconds? Dare I really throw out that bill? I guess I'll have to leave it to the phone company to preserve those records for me. I'm sure their file drawers are bigger than mine.

A New Filing Plan

       The mail sorting is continuing to work beautifully, and is even giving me a delightful daily feeling of satisfaction.

       But it, unfortunately, does not address my clutter problem entirely. The downstairs desk, in particular, has several piles of old mail that arrived in the three to four months prior to my "going Martha". Sadly, it won't all fit in the two-inch-wide "to be filed" slot in my new Super Sorter -- even if I push really hard. Maybe someone from Martha's staff will come over and take care of it?

       Or maybe someone from Barack Obama's staff? I hear that the Obama moving van is due to arrive at the White House at around noon on Tuesday, and that by 5 p.m., everything from the van will be unpacked and properly placed. Why can't I get help like that?

       Anyway, I have checked Martha's book for advice, and have discovered that Martha may have a solution that will not require the input of White House staff.

       Indeed, it appears that my filing system is over-complicated.  Yes, I do have a filing system -- with four drawers of files labeled for things like phone bills, cable bills, separate files for every credit card, and so on. And as each file contains every document, bill and statement received since our move to this part of the country six years ago, some of the drawers are jammed so tightly that it's a challenge to even get to the files without yanking them out of the drawer.  Then, of course, the challenge of getting them back inside the drawer means that I often leave some of the fattest ones on my desk -- right beside the stacks of un-filed papers.

       Martha proposes an easier system.  She suggests buying a 13-slot expandable file and putting all paid bills for each month together in a slot labeled for that month (with one slot left over for income tax information). That means that rather than having to distribute papers carefully in a variety of different files, I can just put them together in one file slot. And I guess I'll only have to do that once a month, when I clear out the filing slot in my new Super Sorter.

       So I have gone to an office supply store, and bought the 13-slot file Martha suggested.

       In fact, I even decided to buy two of them -- one for months going forward, and the second for months that have already passed. My plan is to go through the piles of un-filed documents on my desk and also file them by month rather than by category.  It should be easy, especially as that is likely how they are already stacked together.

       Does that mean that I will eventually end up with stacks and stacks of expandable 13-slot files, each one representing a year of our financial life? Not at all...

Tomorrow: Disposing of documents or... What was I thinking?

Taking Credit

       When Tom got home last night, and saw that the kitchen paper blob was gone, and the kitchen island all clean, he commented on it immediately. "Wow! That is amazing," he said. "That must have been five hours of work."

       He opened up his arms in hugging position, and I happily snuggled in.  "You know," he whispered in my ear, "There are elements of my job that are difficult, and I know there are elements of yours that are tough too. We both do our part though, don't we?"

       I considered telling him that it had only taken me just over an hour to do all the sorting and organizing Martha had suggested. But then I figured that if he hadn't read my blog posting yet, I might as well take advantage of that. So I hugged him back. 

       And I learned a lesson too.

       As a lawyer, I had been expected to document how I used every ten minutes of my day, so that clients could be billed precisely for my valuable time.  Now that I am at home, I contemplate a memo to myself: When there's a chance of getting more credit for a task than is due, be careful not to belittle the effort involved.

Sorting the Mail

       Yesterday, I went to my local Container Store, and, naturally, could not find the file holder I had seen in New York. The closest thing I could find was a five-slot "Super Sorter". The name was great, but since I had already identified the need for six slots, I was in a bit of a quandary. I scanned the store so carefully, shelf by shelf, that a salesclerk asked if I was a professional organizer looking for supplies. Looking down suddenly, I ruefully had to admit that I didn't even know where my shopping cart was.

       After the clerk found my cart, I settled on a new solution -- the Super Sorter, stacked on top of two letter trays.  That would give me seven slots. I decided that I would use the seventh one for stamps, return address labels, envelopes and my checkbook, so that I would have all material handy to pay my bills.

       This morning, I got to work on sorting. As Tom had kindly left unopened all mail received while I was away, I had a good-sized stack to go through.

       And it went very smoothly.  Within about an hour, I had sorted not only all the new mail, I had also sorted through the pile of clutter I had allowed to grow on the corner of the kitchen island.

       The Container Store web site suggests that the Super Sorter/letter tray combo can be a "super chic home mail center."  I think it is more of a monstrosity. But I think, as well, that it just might work. I already feel that I will know where to easily find items in the future. I also discovered that with my categories established, I was confident in throwing out more mail -- as junk, repetitive or simply unnecessary.

       Time, and persistence, will tell if the Martha plan works in the long term.

       But what is amazing, once again, is how simple it all seems. Like cleaning while cooking, or making the bed, it is fast and easy, and a definite improvement.

       I almost feel annoyed with Martha for being right, again.  But underneath that is just a sense of wonder. Does Martha know everything?

Shopping for Martha

       While in New York, I did not ignore my clutter crisis entirely. While I did spend vast amounts of time clothes shopping, a tiny portion of that was spent looking for just the right equipment to ready my home for Martha's guidance.

       As Martha points out, dealing with incoming mail is a huge maintenance challenge. Indeed, opening and sorting the mail is one of the six items she lists as a required daily activity.

       As CEO of the household, I do open the mail. And I spent some time considering what to do with it -- pay this bill, look at that catalogue for gift ideas, consider getting tickets to this event, maybe use that coupon, etc. But then, generally, I later pile up all the bills, catalogues, event notices and coupons together into a small pile that I add to the various cluttered places in our home.

       Luckily, I have an excellent memory, and do remember pretty much everything I have seen -- when bills are due, etc. But the problem is, for example, remembering what pile contains a specific bill when the time comes to pay it. And where is one of those pesky discount cards from Bed Bath and Beyond, when I need it? All the opened mail tends to look pretty much the same, especially when piled together.  Accordingly, I often waste vast amounts of time looking through the small piles for whatever it is that I suddenly, desperately, want or need.

       Sorting the mail the Martha way is designed to address this problem. She suggests dividing the mail into one of four in-boxes for: personal correspondence, bills, catalogues and filing.

       So, naturally, I had to go shopping for the perfect set of four in-boxes. The Container Store, just down the street from Bloomingdales, seemed the perfect place to look, especially since Bloomingdales closed early (who knew?).

       While there, I decided against a stack of four letter trays, because experience pretty much guarantees that I will end up using them to create a multi-level paper pile that I'll still have to sift through. Instead, I chose a six-slot file holder. That way, I can slip all four mail categories into their proper slots, and be able to flip through them easily -- without anything being hidden or covered up.  And the two extra slots will allow me to tailor the mail-sorting to my own needs. For example, the fifth slot might be a good place to put information about upcoming events and ticket purchases. I can use the sixth slot for coupons. And frankly, how much personal correspondence to I get through regular mail? I'll use that slot instead for the take-out menus I'm going to start saving. 

       So now I have a plan, and I'm almost ready to put it into action.

       Unfortunately, the file holder was way too big to fit into my luggage, especially with all the clothing and shoes I bought.  And I certainly didn't want to pay an excess baggage fee. So I left the file holder in the store.

       But it is a start, isn't it?

Fit to be Tied

       Since my friend here in New York is so perfectly uncluttered, I figured that I would impress her by telling her something about cleaning that she didn't already know.  Martha's description of how to properly fold a fitted sheet seemed just the thing to really wow her.  The trick is to start by tucking each corner into the other. 

       "Do you know how to fold a fitted sheet so that it's all tidy?" I asked.

       "You mean with the corners all tucked into each other?" she replied.

       "Uh...yeah...," I said, before changing the topic.

       But it bothered me.  Down deep, it bothered me.

       So I asked another friend here in New York if she knew how to fold a fitted sheet.  And she knew the trick too. And then I called a friend in Toronto, who not only knew the trick, but also commented that it doesn't always work as well as promised. Then I e-mailed another friend, who also knew about it. Then I text-messaged a sister-in-law to ask her. She sent back a nice note, but didn't answer the question. Clearly her priorities are not where they should be.

        And while I shopped yesterday (nearly 12 hours straight, remarkably) I remained bothered by the whole fitted sheet issue. Was I the only one on the planet who didn't know about this? What other tricks of woman-hood (or person-hood) had been denied me?  What other secrets was everyone in on, except me?  

       Or perhaps I had known about it once, but had simply forgotten. Perhaps this was my first, somewhat premature, "senior moment"?  Or perhaps I had erased my memory of proper sheet folding, due to some traumatic childhood event?  

       I'm not kidding here. When I say I was bothered, I mean I was really, really bothered.

       So late last night, I called my Mom.  It turns out she doesn't fold sheets the Martha way.  Instead, she tries to fold over the edges of the sheets, so that she is left with a square -- which is what I do.  And, the whole time she is folding, she works to keep the elasticized parts folded in, so that they remain hidden -- which is what I do. And when she puts the sheets in the linen closet, she puts the flat sheet on top of the fitted sheet, so that if the fitted sheet is a bit lumpy, it is mostly flattened and hidden by the top sheet -- which is what I do!  

       And suddenly I was feeling good again. I may not know everything.  I may not be perfect.  But what I do have is tradition.  And that has to count for something.

       By the way, if any of my readers also don't know the Martha method, post a comment, and I'll describe it in detail. 

A Break in the Clutter

       I simply can't talk about clutter today.  I'm visiting a friend in New York City, and I'm a wee bit distracted by the sales everywhere.

       But on the clutter topic, one of the good things about visiting friends is realizing that they have clutter too. It makes me feel less alone in my battle. 

       Of course, the friend I am visiting now would have to be the one exception to the rule. Her place is so organized that she even has a special binder for organizing her take-out menus. Aaarrrgghh! Mind you, when I arrived, her fridge held only some butter and some bottled water.  (See my Jan. 5 posting for more on that topic.)

       Here in New York, we had dinner at one of Mario Batali's restaurants -- Lupa. We tried a number of different dishes, to try to get the full effect before we got too full ourselves. While some things were merely very good, others were extraordinary.  We had some ricotta gnocchi that were fluffy pillows of joy -- each bite a sparkle of perfection on the tongue. And the veal saltimbocca was flawless -- juicy, flavorful and beautifully served.  And to top it off, we saw Mario as he walked briskly through the restaurant. When we said hello, his mouth said, "Hello, how are you?", but his eyes said, "Who the hell are you?"  It was a true New York moment.

       I would have loved to see Mario's kitchen. I'm pretty sure everyone in it cleans as they cook.

Coming Clean

       Okay, so we have a bit of a clutter problem.  It's not a huge issue. Really. It's not like it's everywhere -- just mainly all over the desk downstairs, and the desk upstairs, and around the phone in the kitchen, and in a few other places.  

       But it is around -- constantly -- and it seems to grow at a rather frightening pace.  For example, that little pile of mail I put on the kitchen island before our company came the other day has already tripled in size.

       And I know it's there. I don't need anyone to point it out to me -- especially not Tom.  I'll deal with it sometime.  And I do know exactly what is in it -- no overdue bills, for example, or any anything like that. Besides, it was critical to give the bed-making issue its due.

       And it isn't like I haven't been doing other cleaning too. I cleaned the entire upstairs two days ago. I have also done some additional Martha-ish tasks. For example, when I took out the kitchen trash the other day, I also wiped out the trash bin, on Martha's recommendation, and even sprayed it with Lysol.  I also cleaned out the inside of the oven yesterday. I didn't actually clean the oven, by any means. But I wet a paper towel with some water and dish soap, and wiped out the inside of the oven. It looked so good afterward that I actually opened up the oven door a few times just to admire it. And I have continued to clean while I cook. In fact, for the last three nights, I have cleaned while cooking so well that when we had finished eating, all I had to do was pop the dishes in the dishwasher. Everything else was already done. And as already described, I have been making the bed, first thing in the morning -- for three days already, counting today.

       Oh no! I have written so much about the vast multitude of cleaning tasks I have accomplished that I have run out of space to address the clutter issue further.  I'll just have to get to it ... tomorrow.

Making the Bed, The Final Chapter, Part II

       I made the bed again this morning. Again, it happened remarkably quickly, and I had sort of a good feeling about it -- but definitely not as good as yesterday. While walking the dog (without yesterday's spring in my step), I started to contemplate it.  And here's what I concluded.

       Shouldn't my husband, Tom, be the one making the bed in the morning?  He's the last one in it.  Isn't that the rule -- that the last one in it makes it?  The way we're doing it, not only do I get up first, but he gets the added benefit of five minutes more sleep, as well as the joy of being gently and kindly awakened by me. And after all that, it's up to me to make the bed?

       To be fair, Tom and I have divided up the household responsibilities, and it works for us.  He brings home a steady paycheck, occasionally changes light bulbs and, as necessary, fills the Q-tip container in the bathroom.  I do everything else.  Surely, Tom can cope with adding bed-making to his list of duties.

       But perhaps the bigger question is whether the effort will be worth it. Not only will I have to convince him to do it (which could take days), and then train him to do the task properly, I'll also have to provide consistent corrections, rewards and praise for what is, after all, only a 45-second task.

       Uh oh!  Tom is reading this over my shoulder.

       "You're writing about making the bed for a fourth day? Isn't that overdoing it a bit? Besides, I would give up all the extra cleaning you've been doing if you'd just deal with the clutter somehow," Tom says.

       "It's not about what you want," I reply testily. But underneath it is the knowledge that I have been caught.  I had hoped that focusing on my bed-making accomplishments might distract attention from other, more troubling, cleaning issues. But that's the problem with being married to someone for 15 years.  He can see right through me.

Tomorrow: Coming Clean about the Clutter

Making the Bed, The Final Chapter

       Having discovered the childhood root of my bed-making issue, it struck me late last night that today might be the day to attempt to overcome it.  At the age of 45, surely I can learn to face the world without these remnants of childhood limiting my progress.  Indeed, that is at least part of the point of this whole project -- to reach out and try new things without old rules (or old rebellions against old rules) getting in my way.

       So today, I made the bed first thing in the morning -- not because my mother or Martha told me I had to, but because I wanted to give it a try. I stumbled out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and then returned to bed to nudge my husband out of it. Once he was gone, I pulled up the top sheet and the comforter -- folding the top sheet over the top of the comforter (approximately six inches, as Martha instructs), fluffed and replaced the pillows, and that was it.  

       The whole thing took maybe 45 seconds.  Still half asleep, I was barely aware of any effort.

       And although it pains me to say so, the bedroom instantly looked tidier.  Even worse, it instantly begat further tidiness, just as Martha had promised.  I straightened up the pile of books on my bedside table, opened the window blinds to let in the morning light, gathered up some laundry for the clothes hamper -- and looked back at the room with satisfaction. I think I may even have had an extra spring in my step as I took the dog for her morning walk.

       So, it still is my house, my bed and my rules, but it does look better when it's tidy.  All I can say is, "Score one for Martha" (and for Mom, too).

Making the Bed, Part II

       Okay, Dr. Freud.  Here are the facts about my childhood.  I was a good girl -- a very good girl.  I was an excellent student, always did my homework, sang in the choir, and (generally) obeyed my parents. As a teenager, I did not stay out late without permission; I did not experiment with drugs; I did not have unprotected sex (or any sex, for that matter).  And yes, I made my bed every day.

       While my brothers had bedding ordered from catalogues or bought from department stores, mine was specially made for my bedroom.  My bedroom walls were pale pink -- so pale that it was nearly impossible to tell the color was there at all.  The fabric for my curtains and quilted bedspread was also pink, but with large rose, fuschia and violet-colored flowers splashed across it.  In retrospect, it seems rather Brady Bunch-ish, but back then, it was special. 

       Furthermore, as my mother pointed out to me, repeatedly, the quilting on my bedspread was not done in any conventional way. (In an exhaustive chapter on bedding, Martha Stewart explains that many comforters are quilted in box or channel stitches -- with the stitches all in straight lines.) Rather, a devoted seamstress had painstakingly stitched around random individual flowers -- with no straight lines at all. Every night, I was to carefully fold back this beautifully-stitched fabric, and every morning, I was to carefully spread it again across the bed. And I was never to sit, or play, on this extraordinary bedding.  

       As a good and obedient child, I did what I was told.

       One can't remain a good and obedient child forever, though.  At some point, my repressed evil nature simply had to come to the fore. Accordingly, I have become a bed-making rebel, and I really mustn't even blame myself for it. No, Mom and Dad, it's all your fault. After years of doing what was expected of me, I had no choice but to assert my independence in this deeply troubling way.  

       So, I love you both, but I have spread my wings. My walls now are painted in bright yellow and a nearly blinding red. I do not make my bed, except when I feel like it. It's my bed, in my home, with my rules. I am free to do as I please. I am strong. I am woman.  

       And Martha, you'll just have to learn to deal with it.

Making the Bed...

      MAKE THE BED is the first on the list of Martha's "six things to do every day".   She says that "tidyness begets tidiness" (as proved by my husband -- see my January 4 posting) and that having a nicely made bed makes it less likely that one will allow clothes and clutter to pile up around it.

       It sounds easy, I know.  Yet, I'm having a problem with it -- and have for much of my adult life.

       The fact is that I don't like sleeping in an unmade bed.  So I do tend to make the bed at some point during the day -- often in the late afternoon; sometimes, right before climbing in for the night.  But Martha's rule seems to imply that bed-making should be done earlier in the day, so that it can beget the promised tidiness.  Also, having it as the first rule on her list suggests that perhaps this should even be the first thing done each day.

       In addition (and this is strange), I don't experience any hesitation making the bed at other people's homes.  If I am a guest at my parents' or in-laws' or brothers' homes, for example, I tend to make the bed before I leave the room each morning.  But in my own home? Hardly ever.

       Although I have not undergone any psychiatric counseling, I suspect this issue is rooted in my childhood...  (More to come, tomorrow)

It's Not Fair

       I have been working on Martha's daily rule to "clean while you cook". And it's going okay, so far. Now, when I take something out of the refrigerator, I'll put it back when I'm finished with it, instead of leaving it on the counter. While waiting for butter to melt in the frying pan, I'll put the knife I used into the dishwasher. While waiting for water to boil, I'll wipe off the counters.  It's all rather easy, actually, and I don't know what I used to do before with all those little moments.

       But all the same, I've been considering some ways to be even more efficient. For someone who doesn't like cleaning -- but does like things to be clean -- surely there is an easier option. Why not just stop cooking entirely, and thereby stop the need to clean as well? Take breakfast, for instance. Couldn't we just snarf down a granola bar each day, instead of dealing with things like eggs, cheese, butter and toast? It seems so easy!  The only cleaning would be putting the wrapper into the trash.  With some training, even my husband could keep up with that.

       Now that I think of it, I have been in the homes of friends whose kitchens are always spotless. And if I look into their refrigerators, all that's there is perhaps some bottled water, some expired milk (from the last time they made coffee at home) and maybe a half-empty bottle of white wine. These people clearly never cook, and they get to have a clean kitchen all the time. Is that fair?

       It doesn't seem right that because I go through the effort of cooking, I have to also make the additional effort of cleaning -- and even cleaning at the same time, according to Martha's rules.  Surely, there should be some more fair way of distributing labor.   

       Or maybe it's just time to gather up some take-out menus and make life both easier and cleaner at the same time.

An Unexpected Contribution

       I'm writing this quietly, so my husband (Tom) doesn't hear.  Something weird happened yesterday, January 3. 

       We came downstairs to a fairly clean main floor (I'll deal with the upstairs some other time).  Anyway, after breakfast, Tom started re-organizing our bookshelves.  We have maybe a thousand books in a library with 12-foot tall bookcases, and more still throughout our home.  Entirely unprovoked, Tom pulled out the ladder, and spent hours re-shelving and re-arranging the books.  And then, while I napped, he organized the CD collection too. Was he inspired, or infected somehow, by the spirit of Martha?  Is a clean home somehow contagious, so that clean begets clean? 

       I am being careful not to ask these questions out loud.  I'm just enjoying the results.

Cleaning for Company

       January 2, I come downstairs to a kitchen in crisis.  I had cooked a turkey for New Year's Day, and although I had made some effort to clean up the night before, I still have a long way to go.  The sink is piled with dishes and utensils that wouldn't fit in the too-full dishwasher. The stovetop looks greasy, and some kind of liquid is pooled around one of the burners.  The floor is littered with crumbs and dried-on drips.  I don't even have Martha's book yet, but I'm sure she would be disgusted.

       And then, I instantly feel annoyed with Ms. Stewart.  If she had cooked a 21-lb turkey the day before, I am certain her cleaning staff would take care of the mess -- not Martha herself.  Would she even have done the cooking? Or would she just have "supervised" her personal chef?  I am quite certain she doesn't clean her own homes. Who is she to give me advice on cleaning mine?

       Yet, I get to work on cleaning, just the same.  Maybe by the time the book is delivered, probably late this afternoon, my kitchen will be clean enough to face Martha's criticism head on.

       But Martha has something else in mind.  I hear a knock at the door, and find a package from Amazon.com is waiting for me.  The courier is nowhere to be seen.  The book must have been delivered by the evil spirit of Martha, attacking before I have even had my morning coffee.

       I open the package, remove a 744-page volume, and start reading.  To give Martha credit, in the introduction, she never claims to do her own cleaning.  Rather, she speaks about the challenge of "running and maintaining her home", which seems a rather nice way of saying "over-seeing the servants".  She doesn't claim to have even written the book. Rather, she states that she formed the concept and created an outline, and then had a team of researchers and writers compile the encyclopedic tome.

       So, I forgive her a bit, and turn to a page which lists six things to be done daily:

1.  Make the bed.  I had failed on that one already.  Not only today, but for many years of my adult life.

2.  Manage clutter.  Let's not even go there.  Not yet anyway.  

3.  Sort the mail.  That's directly related to the managing clutter issue, so let's skip that one too.

4.  Clean as you cook.  The kitchen mess attests to my failure on that point.

5.  Wipe up spills while they're fresh. Ditto.

6.  Sweep the kitchen floor.  Ditto again.

       The next two pages go on to provide a long list of weekly housekeeplng goals.  Sure thing, Martha.  So I gently close the book, pour myself some coffee, and pick up the newspaper.  For full distraction, I also turn on CNN.

       Two hours later, a neighbor calls to suggest that he and his wife come over to our place that night to watch a hockey game on TV.  They had had us over a couple of weeks before to watch another game at their place.

       Although I don't think Martha's "Homekeeping Handbook" includes advice on entertaining etiquette. I am quite sure that my stumbling, "Uh...uh...uh..." response would fail all Stewart-esque standards.  "Or do you want to come to our place?" my neighbor eventually offered.  I think through the pros and cons.  I like our neighbors and enjoy watching hockey with them.  My husband, who is an extremely expressive fan, tends to be more civilized with other people around.  Martha would be impressed that I had ingredients to cook up a great game-time snack.  All I really had to do was clean.  I manage to coax the words out of my mouth:  "Sure come on over. The game starts at 7:30."

       And I get to work. I attack the kitchen first.  In our open-concept home, guests have to walk through the kitchen to get to the living room, so there's no hiding it.  I empty the dishwasher, reload it with the remaining items in the sink, clean the counters, wipe the stovetop (and the knobs and handles), hand-wash the wine glasses and even wipe out the inside of the sink (something I rarely think of doing).  I clean the top of the dining room table and even wipe down the chairs, cleaning off some spills that clearly were no longer "fresh".  

       Moving to the living room, I clean off table surfaces, and glancing at Martha's list of weekly chores, decide to dust the leather furniture. In a few seconds, it glows. Inspired, I dust the front (and back) of the TV and the TV table, as well as the window sills and the front of the fireplace.  I dust off (and under) the few objects we have on display.  I get down on my hands and knees and use a special sponge to wipe the dog hair off our area rug.  Finally, cheating a bit, I carry an armload of things upstairs, out of the way.  No one will ever know.  

       I move to the downstairs bathroom.  Thankfully, it's pretty clean. Still, I use Windex on the mirror, the faucets and the toilet.  I straighten the towels and refill the tissue box. 

       And I call my husband at work, both to tell him we are having company, and to ask him to walk the dog when he gets home. She tends to attack brooms and vacuum cleaners, and I need to work for a few minutes without distraction.

       When he gets home, after walking the dog, the place looks good -- very good, in fact.

       "Martha would be proud," I tell him.

       "The woman is still a felon," he mumbles.

Welcome

Jan. 1, 2009, 12:52 AM

       Lying in the dark with my husband, after a quiet New Year's Eve at home, I ask him if he has made any New Year's resolutions.  

       "No," he replies sleepily.  "You know I don't do that kind of thing.  Besides, I like my life."

       He knows I generally don't make resolutions either.  And when I do, I don't keep them anyway.  My silence, however, prompts him to follow up.  "Did you make any resolutions?" he asks.

       Now is the time to tell him about the plan I've been kicking around.  "Um...I have decided that maybe I'll try a new resolution every month."

       "Like what?" he asks.  I can hear trepidation in his voice.

       "I like my life too," I tell him truthfully.  "But I thought it would be interesting -- fun even -- to try something new every month.  I mean, I'm 45, and I am who I am.  But maybe I can make some small changes that will add to my life, or to our life.  I don't know what will happen, or what changes we'll like.  I'll just try something new each month and see what sticks."

       This time, my husband is silent.

       I continue.  "I'll base it on a different book every month, or maybe on a course I'll take.  Like for January, I'm going to try out the advice in a Martha Stewart housekeeping book I ordered from Amazon."

       "Martha Stewart!  You don't even like her."  My husband, fully awake now, hones his argument.  "Her style is nothing like ours.  She's an ice queen, or at least that's how she presents herself.  And she's a felon. A convicted felon."

       "Well the whole idea is to try something new each month -- something I might not ordinarily do," I tell him. "Other months, I'll try things like expanding my vocabulary, or dog dancing.  Or trying to figure out how electricity works.  It doesn't really come just from the wall, you know.  And I'll keep a diary of it all, to help keep track of what works."

       "Dog dancing?" my husband repeats.

       "Besides, I'll be focusing on Martha's housekeeping advice, not her questionable investment techniques."

      "I'm not going to like this, am I?" my husband asks.  He sounds suddenly like a scared four-year-old.

      "Happy New Year, sweetheart," I reply.