a random mix of faith, family, and the many things that fill my mind
Aha! I finally found Mommy’s “chocolate stash.”[Have you noticed that my "Wordless Wednesday" posts are not entirely wordless? I can't resist a caption or title. Compared to my usual rambling posts about things like pizza and books, however, they are "mostly" wordless. We'll just consider them to be "Relatively Wordless Wednesday" posts and leave it at that.]
To visit other Wordless Wednesday participants, click here.
I am not a great housekeeper. My husband always assures me that our house is comfortable and decent and a good place to come home to, but no one has ever accused my house of being spotless. I’ve failed at FlyLady more than once, I don’t have a regular weekly cleaning plan, and dust is pretty much a permanent resident here.
Oh don’t worry, I do clean, but it’s more like, “Gee, when was the last time I vacuumed down here? I better do something about that.” Or, “Oh my, I didn’t realize there were enough crumbs under the table to bread 2 pounds of chicken. Better grab the sweeper.” In other words, my cleaning is more reactive than proactive. I keep telling myself it’s because I have a toddler, and that as soon as he’s older, I’ll be more organized about the housekeeping thing. I might be deluding myself, though.
I do, however, desire to keep the house at a level of cleanliness such that I wouldn’t be embarrassed if someone stopped by. Not perfect, but not hideous. So in the last few months, I’ve adopted a new approach to cleaning that falls somewhere between a “plan” and a “panicked reaction to a big mess.” I call it: “Three Things” Cleaning.
Here’s how it works:
A few times every week (anywhere from 2-4, depending on how crazy the schedule is), I stop, look around, and ask myself which three household tasks would create the biggest improvement in the state of the house or add the most to my peace of mind. They have to be tasks that can be completed fairly quickly (in other words, I couldn’t pick, “Clean the downstairs, clean the upstairs, and clean the garage” as my three tasks). Usually, I can get all three done in 30-45 minutes.
The tasks vary greatly. One day, they might involve cleaning up toys, vacuuming the downstairs carpet, and scrubbing the fingerprints off the TV and other surfaces. Another day, I might feel the overwhelming need to tackle spots on the wall with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser or declutter the junk basket on the counter. And some days, the three bathrooms count as the three tasks, because I’ve let them go too long.
The benefits of Three Things Cleaning:
I realize this post won’t help those of you who have mastered the whole housekeeping thing, but maybe it will encourage or help another reluctant housekeeper. It certainly works for me.
Visit Shannon at Rocks in My Dryer for more Works-For-Me Wednesday tips.
When I can’t seem to get a blog post together in my brain, I’ve been known to browse the many pictures stored on my computer. It’s a lot easier to browse them there than in a scrapbook or photo album, mostly because while I am really good at taking lots of pictures, I am horrible about ordering prints and organizing them in albums. (And scrapbooking? Forget it. Not gonna happen.)
So last night, I was doing a little comparison:
C., four years ago:
And C. now, approaching 10 years old:
He’s almost completely lost that little kid look, and is heading full-speed toward teen-hood. And it’s happening a teensy bit too fast for my tastes.
As for the cat, she remains largely unchanged. Still as surly as ever.
In the Veggie Tales video, Minnesota Cuke, there’s a “Silly Song with Larry” entitled Pizza Angel. In Pizza Angel, Larry laments the fact that he ordered a pizza and sadly, it never arrived. (In case you’re curious, we learn as the song progresses that the delivery-gourd ate the pizza.)
French Pea angels accompany Larry as he belts out the refrain,
Pizza Angel, please come to me,
Tomato sauce and cheese so goo-oo-ey.
Pizza Angel, I’m on my knees,
You’re my number one pie from Sicily.
Yesterday, I could completely relate to Larry. Even though no delivery-gourd ate my pizza.
Sundays are often my day to go out and have some “Mommy Time.” Without children. My wonderful husband sends me out for a couple hours while he handles the whirlwinds kids. I can run errands, browse in a bookstore, even find a quiet corner of a parking lot where I can catch a quick car-nap. (And yes, I’ve done all those things.)
Yesterday, was a mix: I ran an errand, browsed a bit, and then decided to top off my afternoon with a slice of pizza from a local pizza joint. I’d never been in this particular pizza joint, but I’d heard they had good pizza and decided to investigate. Purely for the sake of my family, of course, since if the pizza wasn’t good, I could save us all the hassle of going there in the future. I’m self-sacrificing like that.
I parked my car, noticed the neon Open sign on the pizza place, and headed for the door.
Right in front of the restaurant sat what some might call a “muscle car,” complete with deeply tinted windows, parked in the fire lane. I grumbled a little to myself, as I had to walk around the car to get to the sidewalk. Hmph. Parking in the fire lane. Can’t these people be bothered to park in a regular spot like the rest of us?
Oh well, no dwelling on that; on to the pizza!
As I approached the counter, a friendly-looking girl asked what I would like. “One slice of pizza to go, please.” I said.
“Okay, that’ll be right up.”
Excellent.
But…
Before she could even reach for a plate, a person who looked all manager-like interrupted:
“Um, we don’t sell slices after 2:00.”
“Oh,” I stammered. “Okay…”
“In fact,” he went on, “We don’t sell slices on Sundays either. Just whole pizzas.”
The girl, who’d led me to believe I’d soon be eating a scrumptious piece of cheese-laden goodness, looked sheepish. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot about that.”
“That’s okay… I’ll just…come back another time.”
Head low, bummed out, and feeling much like Larry the Cucumber must have felt, I left the building.
I walked around the fire-lane-parked car (again) and plodded to my own. Suddenly, a Pizza Angel young guy called to me:
“Hey! You want a slice? I’ll sell you a slice.”
It was the muscle car guy. Offering me some of his pizza.
I asked him if he was sure, but I was already crossing back to the sidewalk.
“Yeah. My girlfriend and I got a large pizza, and there’s only two of us. It’s lame that they don’t sell slices on Sunday, so… have one of ours.”
I ducked back inside the pizza place, where the friendly girl graciously provided a paper plate. (And the manager had the nerve to joke with a big grin, “We don’t give those out on Sundays either!” Ha. Ha-ha. Funny guy.)
Muscle Car Guy offered my me choice of slices, which I gratefully accepted.
“Thank you! How much?” I asked, pulling a few bills from my jeans pocket.
“Nothin’.”
“No, really, let me give you something.”
“Nah. Enjoy the pizza.” He climbed into the car with the deeply-tinted windows, waved, and drove away.
What nice kids. Even if they did park in the fire lane.
Oh, and the pizza was very good. I’m sure we’ll be back. Maybe not on a Sunday, though.
Lessons learned (though it seems I must learn some lessons over and over again):
1. I shouldn’t be so quick to grumble about people.
2. You can make someone’s day with a little generosity. Those Pizza Angels sure made mine.
The two winners of Love as a Way of Life by Gary Chapman are:
and
Congratulations to you both!
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