I've been thinking about my icky patterns lately. I have been in a bit of a rut and when such things happen, I tend to gravitate to the question why I am where I am --- plenty of bad decisions I'm sure. I think to truly understand our psychology, we do need to acknowledge these senseless patterns, but, are they really senseless.

My mother is one of the most meticulous and organized women I know. From sewing to cooking to cleaning, my mom is the picture of impeccability. If she screws up a meal (like never) or her house is "dirty", she feels terrible about it. .You would think she was cleaning for the holy trinity. Things must be in complete order. Growing up with a white gloved mother was not easy. I remember her coming in my room on the weekends to see that I had cleaned it and then she would take whatever knick-knack I had moved on my dressers to the 1/8 of an inch where it belonged. If I did not make the bed right she would make me start over and don't think for a minute you were hiding anything in your room. No matter how well I thought I cleaned, it was never good enough and I dreaded her inspections.

I think I was six or seven when my mother showed me how to do laundry, dust and sweep. She said it was important to do this every week and from then on, I was doing chores. Never the dishes, due to my intense clumsiness. Every single Saturday, I'd wake, make the bed, get my cereal, watch cartoons and at around 11am, it was spic-n-span time.

“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, then what are we to think of an empty desk?”

— Albert Einstein

When I worked at The Martin Agency, I was told by my supervisor, "You're not an admin. I've seen your desk, you are true creative." Aaaaand then they laid me off at the worse time of my life without any mentoring or fostering of any inkling of "creative" power I may have had. Nowadays, I'm pretty organized at work, but only because I work for unorganized people. Funny how that works.

Juanita was born when I was 18. His name was John and he worked at a Mrs. Fields in the mall. He was sickly sweet, like the cookies he served. We met through friends and after a debaucherous Senior year beach week, John and I just ended up together. I was the Brillo pad to his soft sponge, we were nothing alike and I wasn't even that attracted to him. I was newly activated in the sex department and John basically lived alone in a two story house in the West End where we grew up. I never saw his dad, and the first time he invited me there, his dad was out of town. I can't remember why his mother was not around, I think she left and lived in another city and no other siblings lived there.

For two newly dating people, an empty house is a playground. So I did what any 18 year old girl with these circumstances does --- I cleaned. He left the house for work and I jumped up as though I was Mary Poppins about to break out into song. I started by picking up the dirty clothes off the floor, to deciding that they should just get washed with the overflowing hamper of clothes lingering in the corner, to washing the dishes, to finding out how easily the broom and vacuum were found and ultimately the whole house sparkled and smelled of disinfectant and scented candles by the time he got home. I just really wanted him to have clean undies.

I then went off to college. I was back home in a semester, apparently freedom suited me too well. Mom broke out the white gloves again. I decided maybe it was time for me to live elsewhere with some roommates. Three punk rock girls in a one bedroom apartment do not make a neat home. Manic Panic jars, fishnets, and band t-shirts adorned most of the floor and it was a miracle no 7"s were stepped on. It didn't take too long for a new relationship to begin and I was scarcely seen at the Grace Street apartment. It started innocently with staying over a few nights a week and much to his roommates dismay, the girlfriend who overstayed her welcome. I pacified it with clean dishes, dusted shelves and regular carpet maintenance. After a year, I moved again to a new apartment with new roommates who were seriously OCD. I kept a pretty clean room while living there, but once again, spent more time at his house. We were done after a two year period.

The next couple of years, the men I dated were a mixture of alphabetized records and spare computer parts in every room including the bathroom. Men's bathrooms, by the way, can be quite disgusting. I remember one boyfriend's house, I doused 409 all over the toilet in order to actually sit on it when I came over. Blech! What is it with boys and bathrooms. It's like they have some allergy to wiping the piss off the seat, and please, you boys are supposedly really good at aiming things in small areas, yet when it comes to the vast territory of a toilet, it's hit or miss. Men in college are really good at keeping things like their computer code clean, the architectural structure of their empty beer cans, and making sure their Ramen flavors are organized in the pantry, but give them a broom and they look at you like they have to hack into the Pentagon.

After many failed relationships and a decline in sleep and cleans, I met my future husband. Neater than most men I dated, but a super creative, he and I were organized chaos incarnate. There would be napkins, matchbooks, anything you could write on with musical notes transcribed on it. Unopened mail was his expertise. I left drawers opened, clothes on the floor, and remnants of outings everywhere. I would come home to drumsticks and dirty dishes and I would leave an unmade bed and shoes strewn about the living room. He hardly EVER cleaned, he would purge if I made a neat pile for him, let me rephrase that, COPIOUS PILES, but would have to be forced to do these things. We could have had a paper hoarder-like situation. I don't think in the 14 years we were together he ever cleaned the bathroom or did laundry. His saving grace was he liked to cook...and then leave me the dishes to do!

When I was in the midst of my divorce, I had to move back home with mom. That year, I looked at the perfect curtains she had made on the perfect matching wrinkle-free bedspread and I would make sure i left nothing on the floor and that each dish got washed immediately after use. That eventually became tiresome and so when I got back on my feet I moved in with another OCD-like roommate. Nothing in that house was ever in disarray and neither one of us stayed home very often. We both had new boyfriends.

“A new broom sweeps clean...”

— an old proverb

The home he lived in was quite large, but incredibly untouched. I used to think dusty books were sexy until I had to stare at them in rays of sunlight. I could see the dust balls in corners and the inch of dust on the shelves. After a few weeks, I was itching for the "here's the key, I'm off to work but make yourself at home" allowance. Once he left, it was a free for all. I ran over to my house, got the Dyson, poured the bucket of water and added some Murphy's oil, washed the dishes in the sink. swept, dusted, and cleaned the entire two story, 1800 sq. ft. house. "What did you do!?" I couldn't tell if the text I received at work was thankful or worrisome. He was gracious, but didn't understand and quite possibly wondered what the hell had he gotten himself into. Once he moved on his own, I was forbidden from doing dishes. After two years together, I realized doing the dishes for him was having me be too comfortable in a home I was politely asked to vacate frequently.

I had started walking a pup at that time in my neighborhood for a young couple I met at work. The two of them had busy careers and I offered my services to help them out with the very adorable and floppy Blue Heeler. Their house wasn't dirty, it was quite a large home, but I'd come over to walk the dog and I'd wash the dishes for them. Then I decided, how nice would it be if they came home and everything was cleaned for them. And as quickly as I put the dishes away, I had already found the cleaning supplies and there was no stopping me. I'm writing this and now I think I'm crazy. Some people knit, some people cook, I clean.

Juanita just wanted to do kind gestures of dirt-free proportions! With the Misters though? Who am I kidding? I did it because I could control it. It made them feel cared for and it got me comfortable. What man doesn't love coming home to a pretty girl, in a pretty dress, in his clean home. Let's get one thing straight, I never made the cocktails! I don't know, maybe there is something satisfying about being a 50's housewife to me ... minus the oppression of course. I joke with my female friends about this all the time and every single one secretly enjoys that notion. At least you'd have really great shoes to go with your cute apron and think of all your volunteer work!

“You don’t get anything clean without getting something else dirty. ”

— Cecil Baxter

There's alternative psychology to it though. My mother. I used to watch my mother iron underwear for her ex husband. She used to tailor all his suits, cut his hair, made sure he had the best meals at all times, cleaned meticulously, and you could eat off the bathroom floor if you wished. She slaved for him and she did the same with my father. My mother never left a dirty dish in the sink. And today, today I go over to her house and I'll see papers on the kitchen table or laundry in the basket and I gasp, "Who is this woman!" And today, she's divorced and lives alone. Maybe I got the idea that cleaning a man's home means making room for me.

I've been in a relationship for about three and a half months now. I'm looking at the dirty dish on the coffee table, the unopened mail we've accumulated on the dining table, and I'm thinking about the laundry that's been in the dryer for two days. When we first met, I was impressed that he made his bed every single day, that each record was alphabetical, whiskey bottles all aligned neatly, accoutrements and clothing organized by type and style. it's true, I did the same as I've done for any man I've wanted to be with, I cleaned his already clean apartment. His reaction was different though. It wasn't horrified or expected after or weird. He genuinely appreciated the gesture and felt that I did a very nice thing for him. I did it one other time and then I stopped.

I've lived in this apartment for three years. He's lived with me for about 2.25. It's a little cramped in here and we will be leaving for a larger place soon. We've felt quite unsettled here with empty walls and still packed boxes, living together, but not really living together. We no longer get up together and make the bed. There's almost always dishes in the sink. I've made piles for his receipts and mail. There's clothes on the bedroom floor. I left a drawer open. There might be red wine splotches on the kitchen counter and there might be an empty beer can on the bedroom dresser. My mother would drop dead if she came over right now.

Juanita doesn't really belong in our home, she belonged to the home of so many past relationships where things had a tendency to be swept under the carpet, skeletons to be cleaned in closets, and former exes to be flushed down the toilet She created a clean slate if you will. Unfortunately some stains are harder to get out than others and as it turned out, all I needed was for the dust to settle, realizing it's ok to have a little dirt in my life and ultimately, finding the perfect someone who enjoys making the bed as much as unmaking it.