Rage Cleaning

     My house is far from spotless and the thought of what it would look like under a black light makes me queasy, especially since I have two boys who are a little too loose and free with their bodily fluids. Yet, I have had friends defensively say to me that their houses are not show places, so don’t judge as if I in contrast my house were sanctimoniously clean. As if I were setting a standard from which to judge other houses as inferior.

     Honestly, I don’t care if my friends or family have cluttered houses. I will wade through piles of paper and knee-high toys for a cup of coffee and a good conversation with a friend anytime. If only they saw the untidy mess in my brain, they would know I am a hot mess of disorderly thoughts, a psychological hoarder. As for my house, the papers and toys and other crap is just shoved under the bed or the back of a cupboard or a drawer because I can’t handle looking at it. And because I am a Rage Cleaner.

     As the piles of dirty laundry and sock trails grow, the dirty dishes pile up and the counters glisten with sticky residue, I attack sponge in hand to fix the only thing I seem to have control over. I scrub till that damn, fricking counter sparkles because it is illegal and frowned upon to sponge my youngest son’s mouth out so he doesn’t whine and snap at everything I even say, even hello to him. I throw the laundry into the washer because I can’t throw out the computer my oldest son plays video games on as he shouts, “This video is almost done,” as I remind him to vacuum the floor for the fifth time.

     And before anyone misjudges me. Like that would happen on social media. Hahaha! My kids do chores. They vacuum and dust and empty the dish washer and trash and pick up etc. But they leave a slug trail of whine behind them, their lower lips protruding, eyes puppy-wide with the look of the down-trodden. And that makes me clean harder as I silently scream my energy into getting the damn ring out of the toilet bowl, my 80’s pop blasting in the background to keep me going.

     Sometimes when the week has been especially hellish with dragging kids to soccer, Cub Scouts, Back to School night, and more I rage organize. Yanking open the cabinets where I’ve shoved away the crap I didn’t want to look at piled on the island, I grab a large plastic trash bag or a large Amazon box for Goodwill and purge all my angst out. I ask if the old blender sitting behind the Vitamix brings me joy and since the 7-year-old behind me is begging for the new drone he saw on a Nick Jr. commercial it goes in the box along with my unheard response to his plea. While the ten paper-wrapped straws from Taco Bell, the six lids that don’t match any of the water bottles my kids haven’t lost, and the mysterious petrified food item from the back of the cabinet gets tossed in the trash bag.

     These rage cleaning episodes help me not commit acts of violence on something that can’t handle the weight of my frustrations. I see it as therapeutic. I make myself anew, clean the bitter-tasting resentment from my soul. When I look upon my kitchen island, no longer cluttered with coffee rings, Legos, reusable shopping bags, and crumpled school notices, I feel happy and accomplished. For a few minutes, I had control over something in my life. I didn’t have to rely on someone else or wait futilely for something else to be done first. I saw a problem, and I fixed it. That gunky kitchen sink was my bitch, submitting to my will and my power.

     So yes, my house has moments of tidiness. But not from an overwhelming desire to clean. I actually despise cleaning. But I hate the buildup of negative energy that seeps under my skin making me into an angry cat, all hissed words and exposed claws. It needs to go somewhere so it might as well be into removing the caked-on residue on the kitchen stove.