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Sister Golden Hair Surprise (or The Armchair Philosopher)
When I was a kid, my parents and I were perpetually embroiled in a heated struggle as to how clean my room should be.
"Look," was my position, "look, it's my room and it's not like you spend any time there anyway, so you can just mosey on back to your area of the house."
"Technically," they would reply, "technically, the room is a part of our house and we own everything in it including you. Now clean it or we'll do something drastic."
"Like what?" I would say. They would answer,
"Ha! Like we're going to give away our strategies that easily!"
"Somebody," I would counter, "has to maintain a balance in our home and I see it as my job to do so, so I think you ought to mess up your own room and then see what happens."
"If you think we're going to feed you now," they would say, "you are fooling yourself. Go beg for coins on the street, little urchin."
"I view this house as a thoroughfare. . ." and this argument would go on and on for hours at a time. Needless to say, the room was never tidied because the discussions took too long.
However, and I feel this was never properly applauded, the wood furniture in my room was always polished. The lamps were always dusted. The mirrors and windows were clean. I prefer to have work surfaces that are clear of dust and grime; I simply resent the imposition of an artifical order on what I see as a seemingly chaotic but instead complexly patterned system of thought.
Given that I periodically spent hours vaccuming small areas as an excuse for using all of the attachments, it should come as little surprise that I make for an astonishingly thorough housekeeper. I've been cleaning Clinton House for a couple of weeks now, which I quite enjoy, and suddenly half a dozen people are soliciting me.
When it comes down to it, this is pretty much my ideal job. I make my own hours and do things in the order I want to do them -- and yet the structure is defined enough that I'm never left wondering what to do. If I finish early, I leave. If I finish late, I get extra money. I move around. I see an immediate effect of what I'm doing. I have as much cash as I need to have and an absurd amount of free time. People fall at my feet in gratitude for my helping them.
It's sweet.
It has, of course, made me the great disappointment of my family, who always viewed me as The Great White Hope. According to Arielle, my father lurks around the house rubbing his hands together and fantasizing about the day I fall into abject poverty and have to admit that I was wrong. As for Aunt Caroline, I think she's going to do herself some kind of permanent injury.
Aunt Caroline: "But she has a college degree! [Unfortunately, you're not actually getting the full effect of this, which is very humerous. If you're familiar with the work of Jim Copp & Ed Brown, which I doubt you are, you may be able to improvise.] A useful one! In Economics! You don't get a degree in Economics to clean other people's houses!"
"Um, Mom?" interjects the stalwart Max, "you know that the only reason Rome went to college was so that none of you could ever give her shit about her lifestyle from then on out, right?"
I think I need to make myself a button that says "Tell it to Thoreau."
"Look," was my position, "look, it's my room and it's not like you spend any time there anyway, so you can just mosey on back to your area of the house."
"Technically," they would reply, "technically, the room is a part of our house and we own everything in it including you. Now clean it or we'll do something drastic."
"Like what?" I would say. They would answer,
"Ha! Like we're going to give away our strategies that easily!"
"Somebody," I would counter, "has to maintain a balance in our home and I see it as my job to do so, so I think you ought to mess up your own room and then see what happens."
"If you think we're going to feed you now," they would say, "you are fooling yourself. Go beg for coins on the street, little urchin."
"I view this house as a thoroughfare. . ." and this argument would go on and on for hours at a time. Needless to say, the room was never tidied because the discussions took too long.
However, and I feel this was never properly applauded, the wood furniture in my room was always polished. The lamps were always dusted. The mirrors and windows were clean. I prefer to have work surfaces that are clear of dust and grime; I simply resent the imposition of an artifical order on what I see as a seemingly chaotic but instead complexly patterned system of thought.
Given that I periodically spent hours vaccuming small areas as an excuse for using all of the attachments, it should come as little surprise that I make for an astonishingly thorough housekeeper. I've been cleaning Clinton House for a couple of weeks now, which I quite enjoy, and suddenly half a dozen people are soliciting me.
When it comes down to it, this is pretty much my ideal job. I make my own hours and do things in the order I want to do them -- and yet the structure is defined enough that I'm never left wondering what to do. If I finish early, I leave. If I finish late, I get extra money. I move around. I see an immediate effect of what I'm doing. I have as much cash as I need to have and an absurd amount of free time. People fall at my feet in gratitude for my helping them.
It's sweet.
It has, of course, made me the great disappointment of my family, who always viewed me as The Great White Hope. According to Arielle, my father lurks around the house rubbing his hands together and fantasizing about the day I fall into abject poverty and have to admit that I was wrong. As for Aunt Caroline, I think she's going to do herself some kind of permanent injury.
Aunt Caroline: "But she has a college degree! [Unfortunately, you're not actually getting the full effect of this, which is very humerous. If you're familiar with the work of Jim Copp & Ed Brown, which I doubt you are, you may be able to improvise.] A useful one! In Economics! You don't get a degree in Economics to clean other people's houses!"
"Um, Mom?" interjects the stalwart Max, "you know that the only reason Rome went to college was so that none of you could ever give her shit about her lifestyle from then on out, right?"
I think I need to make myself a button that says "Tell it to Thoreau."
no subject
i want a button like that myself!
lOve,
tom
hum dad
(Anonymous) 2002-06-19 10:22 am (UTC)(link)Re: hum dad
-Romie