White Collar Domestication.

For some time my mother has termed herself a domestic Goddess, a Brigadier manning the frontline of our household. Nigella also offered some profound words on how to perfect this art of domestic supremacy. For a long time i don’t think that Id appreciate the validity of this self coined title, but recently with a changing world and a very real position as the colonel in the war against tabletop dust and overflowing laundry bags I can with strong certainty salute the very fitting term. 

It seems that many of us have somehow turned to the broom in this time of household detention, finding solace in the mighty hum of the vacuum and deep satisfaction in the supreme alignment of cereal boxes in the pantry. Reversing slowly, moving a bristled stick systematically through some cookie crumbs has never been a very desirable past time, but when the netflix ‘watch again’ suggestions start repeating themselves and the bananas aren’t ripe enough for banana bread then it doesn’t seem all too bad. 

Perhaps this is just my own early insanity kinking in. Perhaps I am alone in this battle against the stains, in this war to achieve pristine order in the battleground that houses the car. Perhaps I just like to believe that there are other peculiar beings out there who share this strange fascination with cleaning.

Despite finding it extremely difficult to start, I always have found myself getting extremely carried away with a household cleanse. It is almost as if there is a gripping, addictive quality in the process of moving from chaos to order. As soon as the pantry is organised there is a strange urgency to now rearrange the fridge, almost as if he might become jealous of the beautiful alignment of chickpea cans alongside. When the kitchen floor no longer holds remains of yesterdays vegetable trimmings it seems as if the dining room floor longs to also be freed from its light dust blanket. So if you are not as worryingly OCD and strange as I am, perhaps the purpose of this message is that if you do hate cleaning, you should perhaps just try starting somewhere, pick up the broom and before you know it you might be moon walking across the neighbours driveway with your new favourite new sanitary weapon. 

The point of all of this is actually to acknowledge the art that is domestic prowess. For me I realise that it is a form of therapy, a way to calm my obsessive compulsions. It is also a temporary art form that i have adopted during very different universal circumstances, and I am well aware that while i dance around the house with my cleaning ammunition i am selectively forgetting to do the less desirable commands. I will happily drive the tank but i steer far away from the trenches. This is where the Domestic Goddess comes sweeping in like a guardian angel. 

To me this is my mom. Validating her title. Saving the day. And out of the many things that this lockdown has taught me it is that we should never overlook the importance of our domestic Goddesses. Even if they secretly love the job, it is still one that deserves every inch of recognition. Thank you mom for your valiant efforts.

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