Now everyone has that one friend or two. This person might also be a family member. The culprit loves to drink. And when I mean drink, I mean sloppy, falling down, make the preacher blush drunk.
This person’s house may look like it belongs on an episode of Hoarders while sober, but watch out when they’re drunk. They may remember the start of the evening. Those first few shots of Hot Damn start to kick in good and hard. They start looking around at the cluttered junk and decide Well, hot damn. I need to clean, paint, or do something.
I have to share a story that happened when I was younger. I don’t remember how old I was. I mean, I’m old enough to remember. So let’s just pick an age between five and 16. My mom’s younger sister came to visit with her brood. All four kids.
Mama and baby sister started chugging shots. And I promise no men were harmed in the making of this story.
Slowly, but surely, the brood went to sleep in the various bedrooms. All I remember was hearing my mom and aunt giggle like little girls. And I remember the noise. That squishy noise. Followed by a giggle, and then another squish, and then a roll. The noise was kind of listening to grapes being squished through your fingers or maybe earth worms. And then snoring. Not just any snoring. But it was the snoring of two bears going at it in the hibernation den.
The sound was like two handsaws going through wood.
Cue the dinging of a forgotten alarm clock the next morning, and I was the first to wake up. No one else is up as I moved through the hallway. And then I’m looking around.
The normally dingy walled living room is now pristine. Carpet is nice and fluffy. Furniture is moved and dusted. And the walls are beautifully white. Not this creamy, gritty color of smoker’s yellow. It’s almost pretty. And blinding.
It does seem that cleaning can be tied to emotions. I’m not just talking about that feeling of exhaustion and a giddy sense of accomplishment that something is done. I mean like you clean when you’re happy. You clean when you’re sad. You clean when you’re mad as a hornet. Which I’ve done a time or two. I got down and frisky with the dirt and the dishes when I was mad.
But being drunk, mad, and cleaning is the best feeling in the world. It’s sort of euphoric. You can dust your hair, mop the refrigerator, and sweep the couch. I mean, even clean the toilet. I’d rather make friends with a clean throne rather than a nasty, cruddy, crap-stained mess.