Because life's too short to spend time running a hot piece of metal over your unmentionables...

I'm pretty sure I own an iron. You might not realise it from the state of my clothes, but it's around here somewhere. There's a cardboard box in the laundry I haven't searched in a while, maybe it's in there.

The ironing board though, well that's a tricky one.  The last time I saw it I was using it to prop up the steam mop (also M.I.A.).  That was about six months ago, so god only knows what's happened to it since then.

But really, it's not surprising I don't know where they are.  I don't iron. My tea towels get folded in whatever state they come off the line, my sheets go on the bed rough dried, and my clothes are purchased for both their comfort and their declarations of not requiring ironing.

I know, it's utter blasphemy for someone who loves cleaning porn as much as I do, but I just can't help it.  Ironing is one of those chores which, despite my best efforts, I can't seem to make fun.  And believe me, I've tried!  But there's only so many After Dinner Mints you can bribe yourself with before you're sick to your stomach with half a basket of ironing still left.

I guess you could say I have a love/hate relationship with ironing. When I was a wee little thing, that's how I earned most of my pocket money. A cent for hankies, two for tea towels and pillow cases, five for clothing and ten for sheets. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure that qualifies as child slavery.

I should look up the statute of limitations on something like that.

I suppose I could just cut the crap, be a grown up, and iron the damned shirt, but I like to think that I'm taking a stand against misrepresentation in the clothing industry. They told me I wouldn't have to iron those shirts. I didn't iron those shirts. Sure, I may look like a really big shar pei, but a gal's got to put her foot down somewhere.

I should get danger money for this...

Something winked at me from behind the jar of pickled cucumbers this morning.  I think that's proof positive that it's time to clean the fridge again.

Now I'm not exactly what you'd call a born housekeeper.  As I've confessed before, I do love me some cleaning porn, but there's an enormous difference between study and application.  While I'm only too thrilled to read magazine articles about the joys of removing lime scale from steel fittings, actually getting off my ass, buying the lime scale remover, putting on gloves, applying it, waiting the prescribed time, trying not to pass out from fumes while waiting the prescribed time, then sponging it off seems a bit too much like hard work for me.  Hell, I could barely concentrate long enough to write it!

But every now and then it becomes glaringly obvious that my preferred housekeeping methods of denial and procrastination will no longer cut it.  I'm forced to stand up, swallow a big old teaspoon of cement, harden the hell up, and just do whatever it is that's crying out for action.  So this morning when I realised that the contents of the fridge were a tad greener than they should be, I fought back my apathy and stepped up.

Expired dairy products, left over take away and ridiculously old fruit and veg were all dumped unceremoniously into a garbage bag, then rushed out to the wheelie bin quick smart to avoid any unnecessary stinkiness.  Condiment jars were carefully examined for expiration dates, and a serious debate was had between me and the feline cohabitator about whether the five day old sausage should go in the bin or in her bowl (she won).

But the real hurdle was the unidentifiable something I found hidden on the lowest shelf behind the two week old lettuce.  It was impossible to work out what it used to be from a visual inspection, but I think it was either a small furry rodent or some left over Chinese food.  If it was a rodent, then I'd guess it died in a fight to the death with the jar of minced garlic sitting next to it.  If it was Chinese food, then guess it was combination chow mein.

But I suppose that's a mystery that will never be solved.

The dirty cleaning truth...

I like to think of myself as a common or garden variety modern woman.  I'm (relatively) young, independent, self sufficient, only slightly neurotic, and capable of keeping both myself and a cat alive simultaneously.  I'd say that puts me ahead of the curve in most cases.

I own a car, a washing machine, and a ridiculous looking fake silver tree that sits on my side board and serves no noticeable purpose.  I work 40 hours a week, do the bare minimum of housework that I can get away with without someone mistaking my place for a demolition site, and spend far too much time on the internet.  I'm your standard single office dwelling thirty something.

But the truth is ... and I can't tell you how much my modern liberated soul rebels at telling you all this ... there's a wee little part of me that can't help singing with glee when I read a cleaning tip in a magazine.  A small part of my subconscious perks up when I see a beautifully laid out living room plan in a home decorating magazine.  Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my brain, is the knowledge that you can use a walnut to erase scratches on polished wooden furniture.

Yes ... I'm a cleaning porn junkie.

I know!  I'm not supposed to want it!  I'm not supposed to yearn for the days when keeping an immaculate house was the benchmark of an accomplished woman.  But I just can't help it!

There's just something about the whole idea of it!  A beautiful house, scrubbed and polished within an inch of it's life.  The smell of fresh baking wafting from the kitchen.  Crisp linens drying on the line in the back yard.

And the funny thing?  It's not like I have any intention of DOING any of these things!  Oh no, that would cut into my sitting on the couch and bumming around on the internet far more than I'm comfortable with!

Maybe that's it!  I don't want to be an old fashioned housewife, I want to GET an old fashioned housewife!  That'd be perfect!  I'd have all the benefits of having a perfectly appointed and immaculately kept house without having to do any of the nasty jobs myself.  It'd be perfect, I could come home to "How was your day, Honey" a pair of warmed slippers, and a martini.

Only one problem ... I'm not gay.  So I guess a housewife is out of the question.  I could always try for a house husband I suppose, but from observation I'd say that an old fashioned house husband is about a thousand times harder to find than one of the feminine variety.

I could always hire someone I guess.  Put an add on Craigslist?  "Wanted, male homekeeper for a slightly scatterbrained professional woman.  Must be adept at doing laundry, scrubbing, baking, and aforementioned woman (boom-chicka-wa-wa)."

Hmm, but when you're talking about hiring a spouse rather than a cleaning person, you end up walking a pretty fine line between mail order groom and gigolo ... and I'm not entirely sure which side of that line I'd prefer to fall on.