While attending a
conference, we heard Zig Ziggler talk about a man who got up one night to go to
the bathroom and when he came back, his wife had the bed made. George and the
children all looked in my direction and pointed a finger at me. My face turned
red and I knew Zig was talking about me! I’ve always been very fastidious about
keeping my house immaculate, and at times have accomplished some rather
incredible feats to stay ahead of the numerous people creating messes in the
house. I have taken great pride in the fact that if I was given ten minutes notice,
I could have a large meal on the table and a presentable house for overnight
guests.
My son-in-law dropped in
the other day. He was talking to Ann on the phone. “Where did you put the
registration to the car?” he asked her. He hung up in relief after she told him
it was on the sun visor. “I was afraid she’d thrown it away again,” he said.
“Again?” I repeated.
“Yeah. Last time she got
handy and cleaned out a bunch of things, she threw away our income tax papers,
and I had to pay to get them done over again!”
“Oh,” I moaned. “She got
that from me. When the mess is too big to sort out, or it’s a bunch of things I
don’t know what to do with, I throw them out. I learned a long time ago that
very few things are that important and generally, most of the things I throw
away are never even noticed or missed.” He looked at me and shook his head. I
could see he just didn’t understand me.
I remember one
Thanksgiving when my Mother watched me as
I prepared Turkey dinner for fifteen people and never left a trace of evidence
on the stove or counter tops. “If you never make a mess, you never have to clean
it up,” I explained.
Mother’s was the world’s greatest cook, but she used every pot and
pan in the kitchen to prepare the meal—sometimes using two small pots for the
potatoes (heaven forbid she could use one large pot to do the job when two
smaller pots could boil over and leave a foaming mess on the stove.) A friend
who had helped me wash dishes once, marveled that my Mother had six rubber
spatulas. It was true—we had just washed them all. Mother didn’t believe in
rinsing and reusing just one.
When my Thanksgiving
dinner went on the table, I hurriedly washed the potato pot and the other pans
I had cooked vegetables and gravy in. Mother grew impatient with me because her
diner was getting cold, but I couldn’t sit down and enjoy myself if there was a
mess of dirty pots and pans all over the counter. Mother, on the other hand,
couldn’t enjoy her meal if everything wasn’t piping hot when she sat down. I
loved my mother, she just didn’t understand me.
One evening I started to
clear the dinner table while everyone dashed about the house doing their own
thing. George walked back into the dining room and sat down at the table.
“Where’s my plate? I left it right here!”
“Oh, Honey! I’m sorry. I
thought you were through eating and I threw it down the disposal.”
“No! I just went to the
bathroom and I planned to come back and finish eating. George shook his head
and left the dining room still hungry. I could see he just didn’t understand
me.
I remember watching Ann do
simple things like making orange juice from frozen concentrate. First, she’d
pull the plastic strip from the top of the frozen juice can and set it down on
the counter. Then she pulled the lid off and set it down (juice-side down, of course.) When she finished digging the juice out of the
can with a spoon, knife, and fork, she walked away leaving the whole mess of
utensils, can, lid, and strip all over the counter with sticky orange juice
oozing from each. I couldn’t handle it. “If you never make a mess, you’ll never
have to clean it up,” I repeated my mantra. She shrugged her shoulders
indifferently. I knew she didn’t understand me.
One day Junior was making
pizzas and he complained, “Hey! Where did my knife go that I had right here?”
he asked pointing to a spot on the counter. “Oh,” I said. “I just put it in the
dishwasher.” “Mom, I’m not through with it yet, and where’s the cheese I put on
the counter?” he bellowed. “I put it in the refrigerator.” He sent me to my
room. I could see he just didn’t understand me.
Mornings around here are
worse than the airport at hub-time. Bill leaves for school at 7:00 am, Jim
leaves at 7:45, and George catches the bus to work at 7:50. Junior leaves on
the preschool bus at 8:15, and Henry and Ron catch their bus at 9:05. When
they’re all out the door, the kitchen looks like a tornado hit. It’s usually
about this time I fix breakfast for Ann and myself.
One morning in particular,
I put Ann’s breakfast on her highchair tray. She’s really too old for the
highchair, but it’s easier to control the mess so I keep her there for my
convenience. I set my bowl of oatmeal off to the side on the counter and rushed
about the kitchen emptying the dishwasher and putting the clean dishes away,
rinsing the breakfast dishes, washing the oatmeal pot, and reloading the
dishwasher.
When Ann was through with
her breakfast, she handed me her bowl. I washed her off, washed her high chair
tray and her plastic bib, put them back in their places, and put her bowl in
the dishwasher.
When everyone was taken
care of and the dishes were all loaded in the dishwasher, I sighed with relief
and sat down at the table to eat my own breakfast in peace. When my bowl wasn’t
on the table, I remembered I had set it aside on the kitchen counter. I walked
to the kitchen only to find I had scraped my bowl down the disposal with the
others and put it in the dishwasher. I walked out of the kitchen bewildered. I
just don’t understand me.
