Atomic Housewife.

It finally happened.

I have been trying to sweep it under the rug to no avail.
Like dusting a living room in the middle of the Sahara desert. Pointless.

My self-appointed kept wife status came back to bite me in the butt. Like a pretty poodle on a bitch fit.
The first lady arrangement has taken a vacation and will be gone indefinitely, it's on maternity leave or at Betty Ford recovering from a Xanax addiction.

This morning I woke up feeling all right. No clouds in my sky. A pretty dawn and the smell of our trusty Bialetti percolating our coffee were welcoming myself and hubby into this new glorious Tuesday.
I even had the time to contemplate if I was going to use my super powers for good or evil for the day.
Peachy.

Right after we had our coffee an alien force (generated from what I can only describe as pure evil) took me over.
A vicious desire filled my soul.
A depraved motive made its way into my brain.

This morning after coffee I felt the urge to clean our flat.

I know...I just gasped too when I saw it in writing before my eyes.

What is really wicked about this cleaning compulsion is that our flat is not even dirty or untidy at all.
Yes, I can't compare it to a Stepford house but the Honey Bo-boo household is for sure out of the comparison as well. Not amazing, but not abominable either. Like a movie on the Lifetime channel.

While driven by this obscure might I took a broom out of the utility closet and started sweeping the floor. When hubby saw me taking a broom in my hands he probably thought that I was eventually admitting that I was a witch by nature. For all hubby knew I was going to ride that stick into the horizon like a modern day enchantress.
But there were no sorcerous motives behind my actions. Not at all.
I just felt like cleaning the laminated floor. First thing in the morning.
How perverted of me.

To be said I am not against hygiene all together. A home should be tidy and clean. But ours was already very close to those standards! Anyhow I had to do what the dark forces told me to.

So off I went onto a 40 minute cleaning spree (floors, bathroom, making the bed, tiding up the kitchen) that culminated in me re-organizing our underwear drawers. When I snapped out of that purging mode I found I even had a mop in my hand with which (hubby says) I thoroughly dusted our furniture.
The madness I tell you! I felt as if I was observing the scene from the ceiling, like I was watching a program on the Discovery Channel. Even worst than that: a program on TLC.
My big fat cleaning-for-no-reason delirium.

Very true.

But I was not finished with my frenzy.

I had the time to question and revisit my hubby's outfit choice for the day.
I also got rid of the fluff on his pants by using one of those sticky rolls with a handle. I didn't even know we had one of those in the apartment and still don't know what they are called.
When I found myself fixing the tie on him I honestly felt the spirits of all the housewives form the 50's possessing my body and erasing decades of social evolution, emancipation and liberation.

Actual advertisements.

But the man has to be helped. Look at how he propped the jacket he was going to wear for the day:

Is it animal, mineral or vegetable?

I did.

 Once hubby was ready I gave him his snack box and kissed him goodbye on his way to work.

And at that point I was left alone with my thoughts.  
Houston, we have a problem. 
Leaving me alone with my thought is like giving teenagers too much freedom. You know that some shit will eventually happen.
In any case I put the broom and the mop away, started a delicate cycle of laundry and let the soothing noise of the washing routine guide me through the assessment of what happened only a few minutes before.

I am not going to try to elaborate on a persuasive explanation of why I acted like a maid-zilla during our morning ritual. I suppose we don't really know in which way we are going to show our loved ones how much we actually care for them. Sometimes our demonstration of affection can come out a bit wonky or on steroids. My demonstration was quite atypical but sincere. Out of whack but carried out in a nurturing way.

No caption needed.

I have nothing against home chores and cleaning after myself. I am not that frivolous.
I love to iron a shirt to the point of making it stiff, pressing on the board with so much emphasis that the act almost looks like a modern-art live performance. I get great pleasure from organizing closets and drawers. I wish I could live in one of mine since they are so well put together.
Mother back in Italy did put us (my bothers and I) to good cleaning-use as soon as our hand-eye coordination skills were settled. She had three little helpers and never needed any assistance from cleaners coming from the Western Pacific Ocean. Those chores were not child abuse, they were child education.
You want to live in a respectable house? Make yourself at home and clean the kitchen! Perhaps a strategy that should be made popular again amongst the new generations. Just a thought.
Some say that a clean house is the sign of a wasted life.
I say a dirty house is the sign of a lazy ass!

I only drink mine!

I do believe that dusting and mopping sometimes can be used as therapeutic exercises too. But I need to choose my cues more carefully rather than acting like a Tasmanian-cleaning-devil at 7.30 in the morning.
It's not what you do, but how and when you do it.

My style is decidedly close to the one of I Love Lucy.

Good advice.

Lucy.

Here is a pearl of wisdom from me to you :   
With a bit of wit clean after your shit. 

I made that up so don't sell it to any advertising firm.

Now if you'll excuse me I'll go put that pearl on a T-shirt.

Ciao for now.