Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? (Twelfth Night, II, iii)
Q. How do you clean a shower curtain?
A. With a scouring pad and white vinegar. If you do it regularly, you can probably get away with wiping it down while it's hanging up; if not, you'll have to take it down and scrub it in the bathtub, a real nuisance. Bonus hint: if you start a cleaning session with one ingredient, like vinegar, it's probably best to keep on with it until the whole bathroom is clean. That way, you don't have to spend time worrying about mixing chemicals and creating noxious gases. Life's too short for that.
Q. Why are bunches of kale so big? I bought some to make soup like you were talking about last week, but I had a boatload left over. What are you supposed to do with it?
A. Bunches of kale, much like bunches of celery, are sized more for families than for single hipsters. If you buy some for soup, you're probably going to end up making soup again to use up the rest of it (I don't know what else to do with it except to put it in soup; you could steam it, I suppose). My advice is: don't be shy about dividing the bunch in half the first time, because if you are, you'll end up with way too much kale for the second batch. There's always more of it than you think. The good news is, kale holds up well in soup and doesn't wilt away to nothing like some of your other greens.
Q. My boyfriend left me, and they don't allow pets where I live. I'm getting through the breakup OK, but it's just so cold and lonely when I go to bed at night. Any suggestions?
A. Get a hot water bottle, fill it with water as hot as you like it from the sink, and put it under the covers a few minutes before you go to bed. If you warm the place where your feet will go, you can then put the bottle itself against your back. Just make sure it's hot but not too hot. It may sound like something your spinster aunt would do--but it's sooooooo much better than it sounds.
Q. Which is better reading for a beach vacation, Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters?
A. What kind of a beach vacation are you planning? I find the Brontes more passionate and less concerned with convention. It's no slight to Miss Austen to say this, but I think her appeal is a bit more cerebral, more concerned with wit and conversational nuance. That kind of thing can get lost in the shuffle if you're surrounded by, say, several games of beach volleyball going on at once or a clambake/sing-a-long. At the same time, a Bronte novel (it doesn't matter which one) might seem too dark under the same circumstances. Personally, I would take either of them to the beach but only if it was a quiet one.
Q. I have a cafe habit but can't afford Starbucks. How can I have the same experience at home without buying an expensive coffeemaker?
A. I have made coffee using filters and the pour-through method that I then mixed with milk and syrup, but it's kind of a hassle. Buying those little bottles of Frappuccino at the store also works and is fairly economical if you drink them sparingly. Pop the top and pour.
Q. I hate to dust. Is there any way to make it more enjoyable?
A. Putting music on makes most things in life more tolerable. When I was in library school, I did cataloging homework to the accompaniment of heavy metal at least once. For some reason, it created the right energy. For dusting, I like bossa nova. I also suggest clearing off your shelves so that you have fewer things to move when you dust.
Q. I'm a Democrat, but I have a crush on a really cute Republican girl. My family and friends keep saying it will never work, but I'm just wondering . . . is interparty dating ever OK?
A. Actually, I believe you may be the wave of the future. Political stratification is pulling the country apart, and anyone who's bucking the trend is to be commended, in my opinion. Ask the girl out, and see what happens. What debates, elections, and political commentary can't fix, maybe hormones can.
Q. When Chuck Berry died this week, I was in a quandary. I liked his music, but people were talking about the trouble he had with the law. How do you mourn someone in a case like that?
A. I'm not sure I can give you a precise answer. I ended up doing the thing I always do, which was to look up information about Mr. Berry and try to make sense of it all, the incredible talent and contribution to American culture mixed up with the transgressive tendencies. I will say that I think it's hard to be a pioneer, like Mr. Berry was, a black man making inroads into white culture in a segregated time, not that that excuses wrongdoing. However, if any aliens from another civilization ever do come across the Voyager spacecraft, his may be the first human voice they hear, a signal honor for him. There is one way in which this seems entirely appropriate to me. Mr. Berry did a lot in his own way to bring people together.
Q. How do you clean wood floors? Doesn't water warp them?
A. Thank goodness for an easy question. I use a dust mop and only apply a damp mop lightly for touch-ups. Some people say to wax them, but if I did that I'd only slide around on them.
Q. I want to start my own blog. Is it hard?
A. No, but there's no money in it. You'll need a day job. And people will ask you these vexing questions.
Showing posts with label housecleaning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label housecleaning. Show all posts
Friday, March 24, 2017
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Stay Loose
Sometimes, it's the little things. The other day, I was sitting in my living room in the early afternoon, just sitting on the couch with the blinds open and the sunlight pouring in. I was looking at my rug, which I had vacuumed the day before, and at the floor, immaculate and gleaming in the light. I was thinking how good it felt to be sitting in a clean room, with no visible dust, thanks to my (sometimes imperfect) efforts to stay on a cleaning schedule. Unexpectedly, a feeling of contentment and serenity came over me, and it was all on account of not seeing any dust bunnies under the coffee table.
I've never really enjoyed housework (and am not crazy about it now), but I do like the way I feel once it's done. When I worked full-time, it seemed like a real chore to mop and dust, but now that I've been spending more time at home, I've come to appreciate more closely the Zen of a clean room. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that I had done the work myself. If someone else had done it, I'd probably still enjoy the idea that the room was clean but might be suffering some residual guilt over the fact that I'd had to pay someone to clean up after me. I'd be totally missing the happiness of giving myself the gift of a clean room.
It doesn't sound like much, but believe it or not, it was probably the highlight of my week. Peak experiences come in all strengths and flavors, I guess, from the barely there to the resoundingly dramatic. Watching the light shine on a wooden floor may seem to have little in common with something like, say, reaching the top of a mountain, or even just watching a mountain reveal itself to you from different angles as you drive past it, but they're just different points on a journey.
Actually, I had the mountain experience recently on the interstate out west, and part of the marvel of it to me, then and now, was the fact that I had the capacity to see and respond to the moment regardless of anything that took place on the way to it. The mountain itself seemed to be saying something like, "Be hard, be immovable, be adamantine when you need to be," but there was also a whisper of something else, something like, "And remember how blue the sky was when you saw me, and how free you suddenly felt. Remember how my slopes gleamed in the sunshine. Don't forget."
Well, as Wendy Doniger has said, a mythologist needs both a microscope and a telescope. Sometimes you're looking at a grain of sand and sometimes you're looking at a mountain, but the important thing is to stay open, to retain the capacity to marvel, even though you won't feel it all the time.
Stay loose, everybody.
I've never really enjoyed housework (and am not crazy about it now), but I do like the way I feel once it's done. When I worked full-time, it seemed like a real chore to mop and dust, but now that I've been spending more time at home, I've come to appreciate more closely the Zen of a clean room. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that I had done the work myself. If someone else had done it, I'd probably still enjoy the idea that the room was clean but might be suffering some residual guilt over the fact that I'd had to pay someone to clean up after me. I'd be totally missing the happiness of giving myself the gift of a clean room.
It doesn't sound like much, but believe it or not, it was probably the highlight of my week. Peak experiences come in all strengths and flavors, I guess, from the barely there to the resoundingly dramatic. Watching the light shine on a wooden floor may seem to have little in common with something like, say, reaching the top of a mountain, or even just watching a mountain reveal itself to you from different angles as you drive past it, but they're just different points on a journey.
Actually, I had the mountain experience recently on the interstate out west, and part of the marvel of it to me, then and now, was the fact that I had the capacity to see and respond to the moment regardless of anything that took place on the way to it. The mountain itself seemed to be saying something like, "Be hard, be immovable, be adamantine when you need to be," but there was also a whisper of something else, something like, "And remember how blue the sky was when you saw me, and how free you suddenly felt. Remember how my slopes gleamed in the sunshine. Don't forget."
Well, as Wendy Doniger has said, a mythologist needs both a microscope and a telescope. Sometimes you're looking at a grain of sand and sometimes you're looking at a mountain, but the important thing is to stay open, to retain the capacity to marvel, even though you won't feel it all the time.
Stay loose, everybody.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Mnemosyne's Rules for Making Room
Some people think spring is the best time for cleaning, but I say, why not winter? You're going to be inside anyway, and inclement days provide an ideal opportunity to tackle jobs like clearing out clutter that you wouldn't dream of doing on a nice day (or at least, I wouldn't).
I've written before about the complications that arise from having too many objects sitting around. Lately, I've actually been getting rid of some of them, and while it may not free up that much space, it just feels better to have them gone. The television, for example, I never watched--and to my surprise, you apparently can't even give a TV away, so I just had to throw it out. My old typewriter, which was taking up real estate on a crowded table in the back room, now has the niche the TV formerly occupied. There was also the space heater I never used, and even though I had it tucked away, that's one less thing I'll have to move when dust-mopping.
Last winter, I had gotten my files mostly in order, but there's still some clutter, so I've started going through that, too. Old bills, cards, pictures . . . anything I'm pretty sure I won't be looking at again is a candidate for the dust bin. Several times in the past, I've started to throw out old boxes of letters and cards and found that for sentimental reasons, I hesitated to do so. My feelings about that are a little different now, as I realize that I truly never look at those things, that they are gathering dust, and that dust is itself a hazard.
Last night, for example, I found an old Christmas card in which someone berated me for not including any news in my card and then went on to tell me that they had been in Lexington not long before. The same thought came to mind that had occurred to me the first time I read the card, which was, "Wow, if you really want to know how I'm doing, why didn't you call when you were in town?" The nerve, huh? This time, however, I didn't suppress the thought, and that card went the way of the shredder.
I know there will be more things thrown away by the time I'm done. I've already parted company with videos I have no desire to look at again; I've gone through my books before, but who knows, there may be more that I feel I can part with now. I certainly have plenty of them. Then there are all those "collectibles" sitting around that make dusting such a pain in the neck. Some of them I've had for years, but it may be time now to let them go. It'd be much easier to clean without them.
It isn't that I don't value gifts that people have given me but rather that I want the things I look at every day to speak to me of living affection--in many cases, these objects are like exhibits from a museum of my past, curios collected on an archaeological dig, from people I no longer see. And who wants to live in a museum? It's the relationship with the giver that gives an object meaning--without that, it's just something taking up space. This process will take a little doing, but the beginning of the year seems like a propitious time to start.
On a final note, I've been clearing out old emails and online accounts as well--and while I'm on the topic of electronic communications, this is probably a good time to tell you that Google says people following my blog with a non-Google account will no longer be able to do so in the near future. If you want to follow Wordplay, they advise that you sign up for a Google account and re-follow the blog. I'm not sure how many Openid followers I have, but if you're one of them, this applies to you. I sometimes look at the metrics on my blog and am amazed at the number of readers I have around the world. So many from Russia, for instance--what gives with all those Russian readers, second only to Americans in following my blog? I asked that once before, and someone said that perhaps I have a Russian admirer. I don't think that's it, but it remains one of the curiosities of my blogging life.
You may, like me, be busy clearing out clutter and getting organized for the new year. If so, good luck and smooth sailing. And if you enjoy Wordplay's forays into myth, culture, and everyday life, I'll see you in cyberspace.
I've written before about the complications that arise from having too many objects sitting around. Lately, I've actually been getting rid of some of them, and while it may not free up that much space, it just feels better to have them gone. The television, for example, I never watched--and to my surprise, you apparently can't even give a TV away, so I just had to throw it out. My old typewriter, which was taking up real estate on a crowded table in the back room, now has the niche the TV formerly occupied. There was also the space heater I never used, and even though I had it tucked away, that's one less thing I'll have to move when dust-mopping.
Last winter, I had gotten my files mostly in order, but there's still some clutter, so I've started going through that, too. Old bills, cards, pictures . . . anything I'm pretty sure I won't be looking at again is a candidate for the dust bin. Several times in the past, I've started to throw out old boxes of letters and cards and found that for sentimental reasons, I hesitated to do so. My feelings about that are a little different now, as I realize that I truly never look at those things, that they are gathering dust, and that dust is itself a hazard.
Last night, for example, I found an old Christmas card in which someone berated me for not including any news in my card and then went on to tell me that they had been in Lexington not long before. The same thought came to mind that had occurred to me the first time I read the card, which was, "Wow, if you really want to know how I'm doing, why didn't you call when you were in town?" The nerve, huh? This time, however, I didn't suppress the thought, and that card went the way of the shredder.
I know there will be more things thrown away by the time I'm done. I've already parted company with videos I have no desire to look at again; I've gone through my books before, but who knows, there may be more that I feel I can part with now. I certainly have plenty of them. Then there are all those "collectibles" sitting around that make dusting such a pain in the neck. Some of them I've had for years, but it may be time now to let them go. It'd be much easier to clean without them.
It isn't that I don't value gifts that people have given me but rather that I want the things I look at every day to speak to me of living affection--in many cases, these objects are like exhibits from a museum of my past, curios collected on an archaeological dig, from people I no longer see. And who wants to live in a museum? It's the relationship with the giver that gives an object meaning--without that, it's just something taking up space. This process will take a little doing, but the beginning of the year seems like a propitious time to start.
On a final note, I've been clearing out old emails and online accounts as well--and while I'm on the topic of electronic communications, this is probably a good time to tell you that Google says people following my blog with a non-Google account will no longer be able to do so in the near future. If you want to follow Wordplay, they advise that you sign up for a Google account and re-follow the blog. I'm not sure how many Openid followers I have, but if you're one of them, this applies to you. I sometimes look at the metrics on my blog and am amazed at the number of readers I have around the world. So many from Russia, for instance--what gives with all those Russian readers, second only to Americans in following my blog? I asked that once before, and someone said that perhaps I have a Russian admirer. I don't think that's it, but it remains one of the curiosities of my blogging life.
You may, like me, be busy clearing out clutter and getting organized for the new year. If so, good luck and smooth sailing. And if you enjoy Wordplay's forays into myth, culture, and everyday life, I'll see you in cyberspace.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Wordplay Takes on: Water Stains
I bet you there's a contingent of readers out there somewhere saying, "Wordplay, this mythology is all well and good, but what about the 'everyday life' part? Have you ever once given us any sound, practical advice that we could actually use in daily living?" Now that you mention it, I'm not sure I have. In my defense, I have to say that I didn't think household hints, recipes, and the 10 best ways to organize your desk were in my line exactly. I assumed they were better handled by someone else, but maybe not.
Well, a myth specialist has to deal with the same little problems as everybody else (and maybe more--I can tell you for a fact I've had more than my share of aggravation when it comes to strange neighbors, uncivil behavior from random members of the public, and travel nuisances, for example), but I've written about of all that before. Besides, I'm guessing it would be better to "cut my teeth" in the practical hints department on something I have a proven remedy for, so I'm going to tell you how I successfully got a water stain out of an upholstered chair, the very one I'm sitting in now, in fact. And before you ask, yes, this too has a mythic component. It's in the spirit of Hestia, whose season we're in as the colder weather pushes us indoors and thoughts turn to hearth and home, that I gladly give you this advice.
First, some background, vis-a-vis, how the water stain came to be there. It's because of an accident in which the glass I was drinking from slipped when I was putting it on a coaster. Unfortunately, this beverage was as colorful and stain-intensive as it's possible to be (a mixed-berry smoothie), so the spot was about as bad as bad can be, almost like red wine on the fabric. I'd never had to deal with this situation before, so of course, I looked it up online and found a trove of ideas, the simplest of which involved blotting and mild dish detergent. I actually didn't think it would work, but it did, after a little persistence. Problem was, this treatment left a water stain that was much bigger, if less vivid, than the original trouble spot.
Now, don't distract me by wondering if the accident could have been a Jungian "slip" of some kind. I'm not going down that road. Suffice it to say there was a honking big water stain on the back of the chair. The chair isn't placed so that the stain really showed, but I knew it was there. I knew any remedy I tried would be risky, since I'd seen several warnings about checking for an item's upholstery code, which is supposed to tell you which treatments will and won't work, before starting. If my chair has such a code, I couldn't find it, so I just tried to figure it out on my own, with the result that I solved one problem but was left with another one.
The original accident happened quite a while ago, and not long after, I tried to remove the water stain by misting it with white vinegar. This might have worked if I'd been able to follow it up with steam, but I couldn't get my iron to direct steam onto the upholstery without actually touching it, so I had to abandon that method. Every now and then, I'd look at the chair and think, "I wish there was something I could do about that water stain." At some point, I looked up additional remedies, one of which caught my eye by stating that it would probably work even if the stain had been allowed to languish for a while. That seemed hopeful, but for one reason or another (the feeling that further attempts at cleaning might only make things worse being paramount) I didn't get around to it until recently.
Here's where I'll get a little philosophical: sometimes, when you can't do anything in a major way about truth in advertising, the downfall of American cinema, or bizarre neighbors, it helps to accomplish some little, concrete thing, even if it matters only to you. The remedy I had in mind involved carpet cleaner, which I already had, so one afternoon when there was lots of light, I hauled the chair over to the window, sprayed it lightly, and blotted carefully with a damp (not wet) white cloth. The idea was to avoid saturating the upholstery and to lift the stain off with the cloth. The instructions said to apply cleaner to a large area, not just the stain itself, so I treated the entire back of the chair.
Here's where another virtue came to the fore: patience. It really didn't look like anything was happening at first, although certainly the chair didn't look any worse. After the upholstery was dry, I reapplied cleaner and blotted again. I let the chair sit overnight, and then treated it a few more times, letting it dry between treatments. By the second to last time I did it, I could see that it was making a difference. Even in sunlight, I couldn't see the stain anymore, and the back of the chair looked the same as the front. I finished the process with a thorough vacuuming. Success!
Now, it may sound like a little thing, but I can tell you it was really satisfying to be able to solve even such a simple problem. Hestia would be proud (Heloise, too). My heart is a little bit lighter every time I look at the chair, which I bought at the same time I bought the desk I'm working on, just before I started my dissertation. I did some dissertation work sitting at this desk, which no doubt accounts for my pride at being able to return the chair to tip-top condition. Come to think of it, though, I did most of my writing while sitting on the couch, and it has a small water stain under the cushion where I tried to remove a spot of chocolate once. Perhaps the same treatment will work there, too, but right now, I'm still enjoying my success with the chair, so that will be a project for another day.
So there it is, how to remove a water stain from an upholstered chair. Now you can't say I never gave you anything. To all people of good will and stout heart out there, may all your problem-solving end this completely and this well, whether or not it involves a chair.
Well, a myth specialist has to deal with the same little problems as everybody else (and maybe more--I can tell you for a fact I've had more than my share of aggravation when it comes to strange neighbors, uncivil behavior from random members of the public, and travel nuisances, for example), but I've written about of all that before. Besides, I'm guessing it would be better to "cut my teeth" in the practical hints department on something I have a proven remedy for, so I'm going to tell you how I successfully got a water stain out of an upholstered chair, the very one I'm sitting in now, in fact. And before you ask, yes, this too has a mythic component. It's in the spirit of Hestia, whose season we're in as the colder weather pushes us indoors and thoughts turn to hearth and home, that I gladly give you this advice.
First, some background, vis-a-vis, how the water stain came to be there. It's because of an accident in which the glass I was drinking from slipped when I was putting it on a coaster. Unfortunately, this beverage was as colorful and stain-intensive as it's possible to be (a mixed-berry smoothie), so the spot was about as bad as bad can be, almost like red wine on the fabric. I'd never had to deal with this situation before, so of course, I looked it up online and found a trove of ideas, the simplest of which involved blotting and mild dish detergent. I actually didn't think it would work, but it did, after a little persistence. Problem was, this treatment left a water stain that was much bigger, if less vivid, than the original trouble spot.
Now, don't distract me by wondering if the accident could have been a Jungian "slip" of some kind. I'm not going down that road. Suffice it to say there was a honking big water stain on the back of the chair. The chair isn't placed so that the stain really showed, but I knew it was there. I knew any remedy I tried would be risky, since I'd seen several warnings about checking for an item's upholstery code, which is supposed to tell you which treatments will and won't work, before starting. If my chair has such a code, I couldn't find it, so I just tried to figure it out on my own, with the result that I solved one problem but was left with another one.
The original accident happened quite a while ago, and not long after, I tried to remove the water stain by misting it with white vinegar. This might have worked if I'd been able to follow it up with steam, but I couldn't get my iron to direct steam onto the upholstery without actually touching it, so I had to abandon that method. Every now and then, I'd look at the chair and think, "I wish there was something I could do about that water stain." At some point, I looked up additional remedies, one of which caught my eye by stating that it would probably work even if the stain had been allowed to languish for a while. That seemed hopeful, but for one reason or another (the feeling that further attempts at cleaning might only make things worse being paramount) I didn't get around to it until recently.
Here's where I'll get a little philosophical: sometimes, when you can't do anything in a major way about truth in advertising, the downfall of American cinema, or bizarre neighbors, it helps to accomplish some little, concrete thing, even if it matters only to you. The remedy I had in mind involved carpet cleaner, which I already had, so one afternoon when there was lots of light, I hauled the chair over to the window, sprayed it lightly, and blotted carefully with a damp (not wet) white cloth. The idea was to avoid saturating the upholstery and to lift the stain off with the cloth. The instructions said to apply cleaner to a large area, not just the stain itself, so I treated the entire back of the chair.
Here's where another virtue came to the fore: patience. It really didn't look like anything was happening at first, although certainly the chair didn't look any worse. After the upholstery was dry, I reapplied cleaner and blotted again. I let the chair sit overnight, and then treated it a few more times, letting it dry between treatments. By the second to last time I did it, I could see that it was making a difference. Even in sunlight, I couldn't see the stain anymore, and the back of the chair looked the same as the front. I finished the process with a thorough vacuuming. Success!
Now, it may sound like a little thing, but I can tell you it was really satisfying to be able to solve even such a simple problem. Hestia would be proud (Heloise, too). My heart is a little bit lighter every time I look at the chair, which I bought at the same time I bought the desk I'm working on, just before I started my dissertation. I did some dissertation work sitting at this desk, which no doubt accounts for my pride at being able to return the chair to tip-top condition. Come to think of it, though, I did most of my writing while sitting on the couch, and it has a small water stain under the cushion where I tried to remove a spot of chocolate once. Perhaps the same treatment will work there, too, but right now, I'm still enjoying my success with the chair, so that will be a project for another day.
So there it is, how to remove a water stain from an upholstered chair. Now you can't say I never gave you anything. To all people of good will and stout heart out there, may all your problem-solving end this completely and this well, whether or not it involves a chair.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Hestia Meets Zen: The Housecleaning Blues
Housecleaning is one of those things that goes better with music. I used to have a habit of cleaning on Sunday mornings, and I always picked something lively that would add some pep to the proceedings. It was almost fun, too, floating a mop easily over the floors, with a dance step here and there. I still clean to music, and it's even more necessary these days because I have more furniture now, which makes cleaning harder.
We're not talking about a lot more furniture, but it's amazing how it's made dusting and mopping disproportionately difficult. The pieces I've accumulated were sensible: a desk and chair to assist with the dissertation process, a book carousel to organize all the additional books and keep them close by, an end table with a bin for magazines, a floor lamp to shed some additional light. Besides those, I also have a few things that didn't used to be there tucked away in odd places: a boot box in a corner, a shoe organizer under the bed.
I remember when it used to take only half an hour to dust and mop all the rooms. A while back, I was wondering why it now takes so much longer, when it dawned on me that I have more things to dust around. My living room, which seemed so spacious when I first moved in (almost like a small ballroom when empty) now has much less open space, and most of the furniture that needs dusting has books or other objects on it that have to be moved and replaced. Mopping is like running an obstacle course. It's harder to get to the corners; I have to mop around desk and chair legs, move things out and put them back, and in general be more painstaking.
I think of those Sunday morning cleaning sprees with regret. I like my furniture but can see how it's complicated something that used to be easy. When I bought my desk, I remember being surprised at how much space it took up in the living room; it seemed much smaller on the showroom floor. (The delivery man told me this is a common phenomenon.) Still, the solidity of it seemed suitable to the task, and I have to say it has served its purpose as an organizing platform for writing. It's just that I liked my living room better when it had more open space.
I remember joking with friends about buying my first couch. I took it as a sign that I was solidly in the adult middle class and hoped it wouldn't lead to buying a mess of other material goods. One friend said he had a goal of not accumulating more than he could fit into the back of a pickup truck, which I thought was a worthy aim. I wasn't too far off the mark with my own belongings, which I was then able to fit into a 10 x 10 storage unit. It would take something a little bigger than that now, although I realize what I own isn't much compared to what many other people have.
I enjoy looking at modern architecture and interior design in magazines like Dwell, where the aesthetic emphasizes making the most intelligent use of space, especially when it's limited. I like the way designers approach it not as a problem but as a spur to creativity, as if they're constructing a haiku with space instead of words. I was fascinated by a story about a tiny Paris apartment, that, though multi-level, had less square footage than mine. The occupants (who, as I remember, worked in a restaurant) did not have enough room in their minuscule kitchen to entertain, and the bedroom barely contained a bed, but what space there was had been cleverly utilized to the max. A New York apartment, while not nearly as small, was still tight; it nevertheless managed to squeeze a tiny library into a bedroom and a full kitchen partly under the stairs.
Most of these modern dwellings are uncluttered and sometimes even spare in their furnishings. I like looking at shining hardwood floors, tidy kitchens, and streamlined bathrooms, and it makes me realize that having a lot of things is not what makes a home appealing. My preference falls somewhere in between the spare and the full; pictures, books, and objects collected over time reveal personality and make a place yours, but there is a point where they spill over and start weighing you down.
My friend with the pickup truck rule described the living room I had in another apartment as being very Zen-like. At that time, I felt I had very little and thought of it as a nice way of saying that I still had the living room of a college student. He wouldn't describe my current living room in those terms, which is good in one way. It looks more like the kind of place I imagined for myself than what I had then. But I also realize that in some ways simpler is better. I was right the first time about not wanting to get saddled with too much stuff.
If I do someday have a home like the ones I enjoy dreaming over in magazines, experience has given me a handy rule for furnishing it: the "does it make dusting harder" principle. If I can experience the ease of dancing and singing, ballroom-style, while gliding the dust mop across open floors, I'll know I've done well.
We're not talking about a lot more furniture, but it's amazing how it's made dusting and mopping disproportionately difficult. The pieces I've accumulated were sensible: a desk and chair to assist with the dissertation process, a book carousel to organize all the additional books and keep them close by, an end table with a bin for magazines, a floor lamp to shed some additional light. Besides those, I also have a few things that didn't used to be there tucked away in odd places: a boot box in a corner, a shoe organizer under the bed.
I remember when it used to take only half an hour to dust and mop all the rooms. A while back, I was wondering why it now takes so much longer, when it dawned on me that I have more things to dust around. My living room, which seemed so spacious when I first moved in (almost like a small ballroom when empty) now has much less open space, and most of the furniture that needs dusting has books or other objects on it that have to be moved and replaced. Mopping is like running an obstacle course. It's harder to get to the corners; I have to mop around desk and chair legs, move things out and put them back, and in general be more painstaking.
I think of those Sunday morning cleaning sprees with regret. I like my furniture but can see how it's complicated something that used to be easy. When I bought my desk, I remember being surprised at how much space it took up in the living room; it seemed much smaller on the showroom floor. (The delivery man told me this is a common phenomenon.) Still, the solidity of it seemed suitable to the task, and I have to say it has served its purpose as an organizing platform for writing. It's just that I liked my living room better when it had more open space.
I remember joking with friends about buying my first couch. I took it as a sign that I was solidly in the adult middle class and hoped it wouldn't lead to buying a mess of other material goods. One friend said he had a goal of not accumulating more than he could fit into the back of a pickup truck, which I thought was a worthy aim. I wasn't too far off the mark with my own belongings, which I was then able to fit into a 10 x 10 storage unit. It would take something a little bigger than that now, although I realize what I own isn't much compared to what many other people have.
I enjoy looking at modern architecture and interior design in magazines like Dwell, where the aesthetic emphasizes making the most intelligent use of space, especially when it's limited. I like the way designers approach it not as a problem but as a spur to creativity, as if they're constructing a haiku with space instead of words. I was fascinated by a story about a tiny Paris apartment, that, though multi-level, had less square footage than mine. The occupants (who, as I remember, worked in a restaurant) did not have enough room in their minuscule kitchen to entertain, and the bedroom barely contained a bed, but what space there was had been cleverly utilized to the max. A New York apartment, while not nearly as small, was still tight; it nevertheless managed to squeeze a tiny library into a bedroom and a full kitchen partly under the stairs.
Most of these modern dwellings are uncluttered and sometimes even spare in their furnishings. I like looking at shining hardwood floors, tidy kitchens, and streamlined bathrooms, and it makes me realize that having a lot of things is not what makes a home appealing. My preference falls somewhere in between the spare and the full; pictures, books, and objects collected over time reveal personality and make a place yours, but there is a point where they spill over and start weighing you down.
My friend with the pickup truck rule described the living room I had in another apartment as being very Zen-like. At that time, I felt I had very little and thought of it as a nice way of saying that I still had the living room of a college student. He wouldn't describe my current living room in those terms, which is good in one way. It looks more like the kind of place I imagined for myself than what I had then. But I also realize that in some ways simpler is better. I was right the first time about not wanting to get saddled with too much stuff.
If I do someday have a home like the ones I enjoy dreaming over in magazines, experience has given me a handy rule for furnishing it: the "does it make dusting harder" principle. If I can experience the ease of dancing and singing, ballroom-style, while gliding the dust mop across open floors, I'll know I've done well.
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