Living in a Clean House

I feel like I'm on an adventure.

We're in the process of trying to sell Brad's condo and it's the first time I've ever been involved with this procedure.

Open houses, I can tolerate.  You basically get the place in perfect order, leave for a few hours, and then when you come back, it's done.

It's the keeping the place spotless EVERY DAY that's the hard part.

I'm not exactly 

known for neatness (although I have to say that I'm not into filthy...it's more like having organized little piles).  I'm not sure exactly how I missed that part of the gay gene.  I mean, I do clean up when guests are coming and Brad's gotten me into the habit of making the bed everyday (well, except for when he's out of town), but cleaning everyday is just not important to me.

Maybe I'm working out issues from my childhood?  

I remember mom's insistence on a clean house.  Before "no wax" floors, I remember my dad stripping and waxing the kitchen floor every Saturday night.  It seemed like it took hours of scrubbing and polishing.  And there wasn't a Saturday morning without the vacuum buzzing through the house, spoiling my complete enrapture with cartoons, from Bugs Bunny, Casper,and  the Flintstones, to the Archies, Josey and the Pussycats in Outer Space and Fat Albert.  

Cleaning was a priority in our house on Price street, and I learned quickly that it was a way to earn favor and spending money.  Taking out the trash, folding the laundry and washing the dishes could mean, I don't know, three dollars?  

Maybe it's just a "lifestyle choice"?

Who says that neater is better?  Who? WHO??

I think it's a matter of personal preference.  I mean, little piles don't bug me.  Honestly, there's something kinda nice about a comfy home that is "lived in".  It's like my own personal little rebellion against the shoulds of the world.  "It's my house so I get to live in it like I choose."

Except it isn't my house.

It's OUR home.

Two adults with separate identities, who choose to make a life together.

Which means we choose to compromise.

I make up the bed and Brad ignores a few little piles.

And miraculously, I am surviving living in a museum while we anticipate owning our own place together, continuing the compromising that is love.