I can’t believe it’s not Better

I should be better at everything by now. I’m a perfectionist. That’s the way it works. I should at least be better at walking, and not be covered in bruises from not seeing tables and walls that throw themselves at me. In particular, though, I should be better at this domestic goddess thing. But guess what? I’m NOT. So, house. It’s YOU that should be better. Why can’t you do more? Why aren’t you adapting? I can’t believe you’re not better. I can’t believe you can’t at least buy butter, or order milk, or do SOMETHING useful other than sit here bumping into me every morning.

I’m getting quite perturbed by the house’s audacity, the way it just lolls around, parked on its hefty foundations, expecting me to keep doing all the things, while it never lifts a finger to better itself, or get a little fresh air or exercise.

Seriously. I’ve been managing my own living environment for twelve years now. I can conclude I’m fairly adult and responsible in most areas. I pay bills on time, have never had credit card debt, shopped around and selected the most cost-effective mortgage, hunted and bought real estate, travelled alone to foreign countries with only the clothes on my back, and successfully brought two healthy children into the world. I think this cements my status as ‘grown up’ in this housing relationship.

However, meal plans, preparing dinner at lunchtime, having designated washing days, organised pre-printed holiday packing lists, lists of service-people, drawers for cords and kids’ birthday presents pre-wrapped and labelled? Such things make me want to SLIT MY WRISTS. The house, on the other hand, has never once said thank you for my efforts to make it look pretty, brushing its hairy floors, or washing its face. It just doesn’t appreciate me. I’ve tried for so long, but I think, now, there’s only one conclusion I can draw. House? I’m just not that into you.

So, house. HOUSE yes – I’m talking to you! Pay attention, and look at me with your windows. Why aren’t your whitegoods good? Why are they so bad and lackadaisical, forcing me to do things like putting the dishes inside them, instead of being good and self-stacking? Why is the fridge continually getting empty and not self-replenishing? Why is the washing machine not able to put on a load of washing and wash? Why the HELL won’t my dining table fold up all of this washing? Doesn’t it know I want to eat some dinner there sometime this century???

Now – for some evidence of my house’s disappointing ability to adapt to its inhabitants. Here is my dining table. All laid out, ready for some feasting. On clothes. Lazy, lazy table. Call yourself Susan why don’t you.

The lazy table.

Here is the kitchen. It reminds me very much of the movie The Sixth Sense. The cupboards, particularly. Paying close attention to cupboard closure won’t enhance its beauty. No cordon bleu cooking happening here, people, can you believe it? It’s not very inspiring, despite the woodland setting of faux-trees-on-panels. I am a pretty good cook. No slouch. Give me the tools, and the space, and I’ll cook you a three-course gourmet bonanza. Here? Well… you get what you get and you don’t get upset. But come ON. This kitchen? Why hasn’t it thrown off its wallpaper in shame? If I was wearing that flowery dress I’d be walking around naked in preference. Why isn’t my wall? Have some PRIDE, wall. Take. It. Off.

I see … *whispers*.. dead wallpaper ….

Perhaps things will change one day, when I awaken to find myself in a beach-side abode of pure white, an enormous kitchen at my disposal and a hibiscus tree growing through my back window. We may then be in true love, my house and me. I don’t actually want to break up though. Happy things happen in this house, with my family. I’ll keep doing all the work, I guess, if it just remembers to be big and strong for me every now and again.

Sorry, house. I love you really. I’ll try harder ok? Promise.


Linking up with The Lounge over at Musings of the Misguided, because confessing to strangers in the dark is so much easier than making them coffee in your horrendous kitchen. 

Being a perfectionist is a bitch – AKA cookie dough is not a real flavour

Finish. The. Job. Please!

I can vouch for the fact that being a perfectionist sux. And cookie dough ice cream? Not a real flavour. There. I said it. Shoot me. It’s LAZY. Cook the cookies. FINISH THE JOB, PEOPLE. How can you make a flavour out of something that’s not even finished? All the half-finished, half-baked stuff being marketed and worshipped is pushing all of my control-freak buttons.

I have numerous examples. Magic Mike. A half-finished, half-baked movie plot that was filmed and dashed off to screen as good enough because it looked pretty. (Really, really pretty – even though Matthew McConaghey should earn some kind of award for personifying perfectly the creepiest of creepy old-dude strippers). I don’t want to spoil it for you if you haven’t had the pleasure yet, but let’s just say, people with drug-related issues at the end still had them, had not developed any maturity, and were headed relentlessly on a path to destruction. As a sub-character, I guess this didn’t matter. The lead character? Well, if you get a girl, I guess your financial woes and existential crises and future career direction also needs no hint of a resolution. But, NAKED. And PRETTY.

Magic Mike – a half-baked movie… not that it matters.

Cookie dough? A flavour that is marketed and sold in icecream form even though it’s RAW DOUGH and not a real flavour, un-cooked, un-finished, just because it tastes good. Fifty Shades of Grey? Two cardboard cutout characters, undeveloped and unedited, sent to market because the market was ready, because it was a book about naked, and we buy naked. FINISH THE JOB, PEOPLE.

Ooooh, actually – I think I’ve just disproved my own theory, for marketing purposes anyway. Don’t finish the job, because naked, unfinished, sells really, really well. Perhaps I’ll stop getting dressed each day and my family will start to worship me …

Perfectionism’s a funny thing. Perhaps funny’s the wrong word. It makes me very hard on people, and even harder on myself. Not much is amusing there. The strange part is though, that it picks and chooses the parts where it strikes. Domestically, I am the antithesis of a goddess. A god-thesis? There’s a threshold, and when the house hits it, I’m like a dervish until it’s back together, but trying to work and sort the kids and do it all, something has to give or I’d combust. I do, fairly regularly, but I realise I can’t bake cakes in an apron as well. So, no Bree for me.

In other areas though? My work needs to be literally, to the letter, PERFECT. I’m an editor. Writing for me though is like a freefall. I’m not an editor when I do that. The perfectionist is in the kitchen making coffee (for someone else obviously! Bitch! Why didn’t she bring me one?!) Sometimes I think it would be such a relief to let it all hang out, and then I go back to being cranky at the people who don’t bake their biscuits. You wouldn’t eat your popcorn raw, would you?

I am alone in my crankidom? Is crankidom even a word? Do I need to chill out – are some things just better left unfinished?