Slob

I’m left with a haunting memory from childhood of my mother’s constant refrain “Maudie, clean your room.” I could not (would not) do it, no matter how she begged and pleaded. I understand now that there was a clear issue of defiance playing out. One way to ensure that a teenager will not obey you is to ask over and over again. It hardly matters whether the request is small or large, or a clear win for all involved, it will not happen. In my adulthood, I recognize this character flaw, if you can even call it a flaw, for its real purpose...survival. I know it sounds melodramatic. Just hang up your stupid clothes for chissake! How hard can it be? I became the problem child. ‘Maudie is a little different. She has these PROBLEMS!”

They sent me for treatment at 15. Dad insisted on getting the best adolescent psychiatrist in Manhattan. This was a doctor who had written books and given lectures. If you mentioned his name to anyone in the field they would know it. His specialty was the ‘borderline adolescent.’ I’ve never quite understood that. Aren’t all teenagers horrible problem people? I had great reasons for being what I was, and we defined the problem within the first 2 fifty-minute sessions. ‘Engulfing mother, unable to allow child to individuate/ terrified offspring, unable to mature.’

What I’ve learned over many years is that you can know exactly why you are the way you are, and you can be thoroughly fed up with it, yet you remain the way you are! I could have saved a lot of money on a lot of mental health professionals if I’d known. I’d like my $80,000.00 back please, with interest accrued at 4.75% per year. Even after the offending parent is long gone, and you’ve done your forgiving and been forgiven for all of it, somehow the stuff is still there. My sloppiness is molecular. If I make a meal, even if it’s just for me, I manage to use every pot, pan, spatula, spoon, and whisk in the kitchen. I’ll finish my bowl of tomato soup and walk back in, shocked by the pile of dishes in the sink, and all the other implements and cutting boards sitting on the counter. I do not want to ruin my evening by washing all of it up, so I’m faced the next morning with the same piles. When I used to visit Dad in New York I did a lot of cooking and figured out a special trick. I would take all the dirty stuff and shove it into the refrigerator so the next morning wouldn’t be so depressing. He thought it was a clever idea. Maybe this is all an issue of genetics. You can’t fix genetics with psychotherapy.

The downsides of this genetic trait are many. I can’t ever find things. Just the other day I was looking for my puffy coat. Being puffy, you’d think it couldn’t be misplaced. I seem to remember last summer, in the heat of July, taking a lot of winter clothing and shoving it into plastic bags, which I stuffed into the closet. Some of those bags I brought to the thrift store. Did I donate my puffy coat by mistake? Should I go there today to see if I can find it and buy back my own coat? I love this particular store in my neighborhood. As I look down at what I’m wearing I see the sweater, jeans, and scarf I have on were all purchased there. A few weeks ago I wandered in, not searching for anything in particular, and spied a brown velvet jacket with detailed embroidery going up and down the sleeves and around each hand-carved wooden button. It was a size bigger than I wear, but it actually fit perfectly. Eight bucks. EIGHT! Even the check-out guy said ‘Some jacket!’

In the same way, I can’t wash the dishes I also can’t put away the clothes. Even if I lost the puffy coat, I have plenty of other warm outerwear. There’s a puffy jacket of the same ilk, a couple of puffy vests, and a few fake shearling items. Never buy the real thing...I hope you know how many sheep they kill for just one piece of clothing. Here’s a joke: ‘How do you know someone’s vegan? Don’t worry, they’ll tell you.’ In reality, I could live the rest of my life never having to buy one more piece of clothing, but there’s something about getting the instant fix of shopping online at 10 PM when the ‘bad people’ come to your bedroom to tell you how you’ll die alone, unloved and unwanted, and probably soon. A new sweater really shuts them up. I did read the Marie Kondo book about getting tidy, and I started with the clothes, just as she suggested. Ultimately they all wound up on the floor, a mountain of them, not sparking one bit of joy.

There’s a story in the Times about a mouse in Wales who comes into a man’s workshop late at night and cleans up after he leaves. It shows an actual video of the tiny creature carrying things like bits of twine and small screws left on the workbench, and putting them neatly and methodically in a box. The article says ‘Mice are willing to put in a lot of effort to work at something they find rewarding.’ Maybe that’s the key right there. I will paint a watercolor of a slice of lemon for 5 hours, but will not spend 5 minutes on mopping a floor, because I find no reward in a clean floor.

It’s strange that when my friends come over they don’t seem to recognize the massive mess. Are they just used to it? Do they expect nothing more of me? Am I being overly critical of myself? Was my mother just plain wrong? I’ve never seen a person come in and get that look that says ‘Holy shit! This is one scary hell hole!’ upon walking in the front door. I’ve donned that look a few times myself visiting an elderly friend who lives with a cat. The apartment came furnished 40 years ago when she moved in. That same carpet remains and has been covered by a lot of throw rugs. I love my friend, and visit often, and now I just don’t look down. I stay out of the kitchen, would never dare look in a drawer and use the bathroom sparingly. I would never run my finger over the surface of anything there. This may be an unbeatable plan for life. No, Maudie will not clean her room.