No More Sleep-overs For This Fuss Budget
When I was a kid, an invitation to a sleepover was cause for glee accompanied by much jumping up and down and giggling "oh goody, oh goody, I can't wait". It was exciting. A sleepover invited you to experience a friend's house from the ground up. Different smells, different sheets, towels and blankets, different foods and different rules. The change of routine was positively intoxicating. (I do have one bad memory of a sleepover. It was winter and I was having a sleepover with my cousin, who was a close friend. We watched "Chitty, Chitty Bang Bang" and drank lots of hot chocolate. And we sang "Swiss Miss, instant cocoa, instant cocoa for dogs" over and over and over as we watched the movie. I'm not sure why--that part has disappeared from my memory bank. Then suddenly, I didn't feel so good and then I vomited all over the playroom. It was mortifying even at a relative's house.)
I do not find the change in routine intoxicating or even welcome when I'm invited to a sleepover these days. I have become a "fuss budget", a brooding Goldilocks even. The bed is too small, too soft and lumpy. The pillows are strange and made of foam--like at Motel 6. The blankets are thin and the bed spread is one of those weird bumpy ones that your father's mother had in her house. I think they're called Matelasse. They were weird and lumpy and useless when Nana had them and they still are. I imagine an ex-spouse heaving them out the door on the heels of the departing husband or wife. "Get out and take that crappy bedspread with you!"
The light is always strange. There is always too much. The idea of curtains or decent shades doesn't seem to occur to most single men--no matter how old they are. Bathrooms and kitchens are always an issue too. Finding a clean glass is always an adventure no matter how fancy the dishwasher is and the floor is often slightly sticky in odd spots. Looking for hand soap beside the kitchen sink? Don't bother, there isn't any. I know.
In the bathroom the smell of mildew is omnipresent. Do men think that the odor of mildew occurs simply as a matter of course? The shower curtain is usually too small and too short and there's no liner. Apparently, liners are deemed unnecessary. So what if water gets on the floor..it helps keep it clean. That brings me to towels. They smell funny. They're small and there are never the right ones. What you suppose is a hand towel is actually a bath mat if you make the mistake of looking too closely. And just like the kitchen, there's no hand soap at the sink--not even a squicky gelatinous bar.
Inside the shower is the heart of darkness--generally dimly lit and under-ventilated. The soap is in tiny shards and it's not any brand you've ever seen advertised. The shampoo is similarly foreign and not in a good "oh, how lovely and exotic" way. No, it's usually purple and goopy and the gummy price tag that clings stubbornly to the gallon-sized bottle shouts "$1.99". My instinct is to jump in and jump out or better yet, throw on my clothes and shower at home.
The male inhabitants of these dens are not poor or lazy necessarily. They're nice, smart men who are completely oblivious to the niceties of daily living. Everything looks just fine to them--just as it did back when they lived in the TKE house or when they lived with their ex-wives. I know from experience that I breathed a sigh of relief when my ex moved out finally. I took down the crucifix from the kitchen wall--granted it was there mostly as a joke and I rid the house of many Celtic influences. The bathrooms stay cleaner longer too. Oh, and I don't have to unclog the toilets as often either. But that's another story.
Nothing is really terrible in these male-run living quarters, it's just that there's no thought expended on comfort. At this point in life, comfort is important to me. If the bed is small and lumpy, my back is even stiffer than usual in the morning. This makes me grumpy and I walk like Ruth Buzzi's little old lady in the park character for an hour longer than usual when I wake up. Most of us understand that the bed is primary among all furniture. It must be big enough and it must accommodate the middle-aged.
The rest of it is window dressing and this is where I readily confess to being a shallow, creature comfort-loving woman from the Goldilocks school of householding. In my former life, I used to stay at lovely, very expensive hotels in lovely cities. I was always quietly thrilled to realize that as time went on, the gap between the overall comfort of these hotels and the comfort level in my own house narrowed and finally disappeared. These hotels understood my desire, nay need for fluffy oversized towels, down pillows and comforters, a thick terry robe and plenty of soap and shampoo. Nice soap and shampoo that is.
Now I'm afraid I carry those same standards in my back pocket. I have them in my own house and yet I'll admit there are sometimes the slightest hint of mildew stains on my shower curtain liner. But do I ignore this encroachment or treat it as normal? No, like any woman without a cleaning lady, I whip out household cleaners made of deadly chemicals and bleach and I spray and scrub until the stains are gone. Or until my eyes water and I start coughing up blood--whichever comes first. However, in all other areas I am without sin. Unless you count dust balls and I blame those on the cats.
I can deal with dust balls but I can't deal with the rest of it. No more sleep-overs for me unless it's a real house--preferably one that the female before me decorated with great taste, lots of style and a surfeit of cleaning products, shampoo and unscented Dove soap. Otherwise, you are welcome to sleep over at my house. I have a queen-sized Serta Perfect Sleeper, two down comforters, real shades and curtains and all the clean fluffy towels your heart desires. Until next time...
I do not find the change in routine intoxicating or even welcome when I'm invited to a sleepover these days. I have become a "fuss budget", a brooding Goldilocks even. The bed is too small, too soft and lumpy. The pillows are strange and made of foam--like at Motel 6. The blankets are thin and the bed spread is one of those weird bumpy ones that your father's mother had in her house. I think they're called Matelasse. They were weird and lumpy and useless when Nana had them and they still are. I imagine an ex-spouse heaving them out the door on the heels of the departing husband or wife. "Get out and take that crappy bedspread with you!"
The light is always strange. There is always too much. The idea of curtains or decent shades doesn't seem to occur to most single men--no matter how old they are. Bathrooms and kitchens are always an issue too. Finding a clean glass is always an adventure no matter how fancy the dishwasher is and the floor is often slightly sticky in odd spots. Looking for hand soap beside the kitchen sink? Don't bother, there isn't any. I know.
In the bathroom the smell of mildew is omnipresent. Do men think that the odor of mildew occurs simply as a matter of course? The shower curtain is usually too small and too short and there's no liner. Apparently, liners are deemed unnecessary. So what if water gets on the floor..it helps keep it clean. That brings me to towels. They smell funny. They're small and there are never the right ones. What you suppose is a hand towel is actually a bath mat if you make the mistake of looking too closely. And just like the kitchen, there's no hand soap at the sink--not even a squicky gelatinous bar.
Inside the shower is the heart of darkness--generally dimly lit and under-ventilated. The soap is in tiny shards and it's not any brand you've ever seen advertised. The shampoo is similarly foreign and not in a good "oh, how lovely and exotic" way. No, it's usually purple and goopy and the gummy price tag that clings stubbornly to the gallon-sized bottle shouts "$1.99". My instinct is to jump in and jump out or better yet, throw on my clothes and shower at home.
The male inhabitants of these dens are not poor or lazy necessarily. They're nice, smart men who are completely oblivious to the niceties of daily living. Everything looks just fine to them--just as it did back when they lived in the TKE house or when they lived with their ex-wives. I know from experience that I breathed a sigh of relief when my ex moved out finally. I took down the crucifix from the kitchen wall--granted it was there mostly as a joke and I rid the house of many Celtic influences. The bathrooms stay cleaner longer too. Oh, and I don't have to unclog the toilets as often either. But that's another story.
Nothing is really terrible in these male-run living quarters, it's just that there's no thought expended on comfort. At this point in life, comfort is important to me. If the bed is small and lumpy, my back is even stiffer than usual in the morning. This makes me grumpy and I walk like Ruth Buzzi's little old lady in the park character for an hour longer than usual when I wake up. Most of us understand that the bed is primary among all furniture. It must be big enough and it must accommodate the middle-aged.
The rest of it is window dressing and this is where I readily confess to being a shallow, creature comfort-loving woman from the Goldilocks school of householding. In my former life, I used to stay at lovely, very expensive hotels in lovely cities. I was always quietly thrilled to realize that as time went on, the gap between the overall comfort of these hotels and the comfort level in my own house narrowed and finally disappeared. These hotels understood my desire, nay need for fluffy oversized towels, down pillows and comforters, a thick terry robe and plenty of soap and shampoo. Nice soap and shampoo that is.
Now I'm afraid I carry those same standards in my back pocket. I have them in my own house and yet I'll admit there are sometimes the slightest hint of mildew stains on my shower curtain liner. But do I ignore this encroachment or treat it as normal? No, like any woman without a cleaning lady, I whip out household cleaners made of deadly chemicals and bleach and I spray and scrub until the stains are gone. Or until my eyes water and I start coughing up blood--whichever comes first. However, in all other areas I am without sin. Unless you count dust balls and I blame those on the cats.
I can deal with dust balls but I can't deal with the rest of it. No more sleep-overs for me unless it's a real house--preferably one that the female before me decorated with great taste, lots of style and a surfeit of cleaning products, shampoo and unscented Dove soap. Otherwise, you are welcome to sleep over at my house. I have a queen-sized Serta Perfect Sleeper, two down comforters, real shades and curtains and all the clean fluffy towels your heart desires. Until next time...
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