My housemate is a clean freak; how do we find a happy medium?
Not Clean Enough, Newcastle
Dear Not Clean Enough,
When living with others, one’s always prone to disagreements stemming from differing standards: butter or margarine; how clean is clean; whether to buy the environmentally friendly, sandpapery pre-browned toilet paper (ugh!) or the luxurious triple-ply stuff; acceptable duration in the shower; and appropriate hours for mischief. The more parties you add to the household, the greater the exponential grief factor. How anyone can live in a commune, I’ll never understand. Unfortunately, the only way around these issues is that big old C-word that none of us particularly likes to hear*: compromise.
Now I speak for myself when I say that I am big fan of living in the equivalent of a display home: not a thing is ever out of place; every surface shimmers like a narcissist’s wet dream; and you could probably eat from the toilet bowl if the dishwasher was on. Yes, I’m an anomaly (among other things), however, it’s how I am wired and it can’t be modified. As for the rest of the population, most like to live in a house that’s squeaky but not freaky clean, because after all, it’s a home and not a concentration camp. It’s okay to have high standards but it’s important to consider others’ comfort when playing Sadie the Cleaning Lady.
Equally, when things aren’t up-to-scratch you have the right and must have the gumption (that was a cleaning product pun) to speak up. Take our dear old equestrian friend, Stampy McNasty. After living with her for a significant amount of time, I don’t think I ever saw her pick up a cleaning implement once. When asked if she could help by mopping the floors, she looked blankly at my other housemate and I and said, “I don’t know how the mop works.” In her defence, figuring out how to use a stick with a Wettex on the end of it is particularly challenging. I mean, it’s not as though you wet the end and wipe the floor with it (*slaps forehead*). You see, Stampy’s standards weren’t as exacting as ours were and her concept of cleanliness was quite frankly, filthy. (Additionally, one day we discovered that her bottle of body wash in the shower was filled with water and not soap, therefore she was just washing herself with … you guessed it … water. I rest my case.)
A way of solving the problem is to engage the services of a cleaner. There won’t be any arguments over whose turn it is to clean and who hasn’t done their share – it will be the cleaner’s problem, not yours – and it is a small price to pay for housing accord. Should your fastidious housemate choose to clean in addition to the cleaner’s allotted tasks; then let the poor fool have their freaky fun. You’ll be feeding the economy, getting your weekends back and living much more harmoniously. One thing to remember, though: never sleep with the help.
* If you thought I was talking about that other C-word, you have me pegged all wrong! Just Google my name and look at page two of the results. Go on, I dare you.
Non-Mopper
2 years ago
I have also used the excuse of “I don’t know how the mop works” with a fastidious cleaning housemate. But in this case, it is true!! Said housemate has a very unusual and complicated mop and when I have tried to mop ended ankle deep in domestosicated water. Since then I have relegated myself to pure vacuum action.