Clean

When I came back from New York, Clyde had cleaned the master bathroom.

By that, I don’t mean he had taken a swipe or two at the counter tops — he had, in the most intensive sense of the word, cleaned the room. He emptied cabinets and drawers, sorting the contents and tossing out anything out of date or out of place. He removed the mats and cleaned the floors and baseboards. He scoured the counters and fixtures, replaced the noisy fan with a whisper-silent model, and repaired the damaged light switch.

The transformation called to my attention the casual filth that creeps up on us all. This week, looking for a similar project, I decided Saturday morning would be Clean the Living Room Morning.

I pulled back the rugs. I moved the sectional out of the room. I took the cushions outside, beat them with mop handles, and vacuumed them with the Dirt Devil.

Moving the furniture, of course, exposed what lay beneath: a fuzzy gray mat of filth composed of dust, dirt, and pet hair. I scraped this up, then swept it up, then Swiffered, then wet Swiffered. I used bleach on a few questionable spots; with a little scrubbing, they faded away.

I dusted the fan blades. I dusted the brick fireplace. I wiped down all baseboards, and I dug into the corners with orange-scented Formula 409 wet wipes. I scrubbed the rims of the plant pots. I Windexed the doors.

Finally, I put everything back in the room. The living room exudes a completely different energy now. The surfaces reflect light instead of absorbing it. With a layer of pet hair removed, I can see now how the sunlight from the patio windows is slowly fading the fabric of our couch.

Clean. The room is really clean.

The catch: with the exception of the master bath, the rest of the house now feels filthy.