I always enjoy my house being clean but I’ve never been able to become excited about the process or to schedule reminders connected to doing certain things. (And I have known these people – though not well, perhaps tellingly.) They have laminated sheets and clipboards; Sunday morning stove scrub-downs and allotted days for vacuuming and laundry. I do not aspire to be part of this group.
I have never been frightened of things that creep. I actually enjoy picking up (little) snakes, frogs, toads, ‘pill-bugs’ (which John Steinbeck likened to ‘tiny armadillos’, one of the best descriptors ever) caterpillars and worms. When Frasier was young, he had a bearded dragon lizard which I was the main caregiver to. I have often shunted spiders into an envelope for transport to a safer, more suitable locale if they are of a reasonable size. (There was one in the basement this week that had a startled, unpleasant facial expression and a head only slightly smaller than my own. He is still down there.)
I have loved all animals all my life – furry, feathered, fuzzy, – and till fairly recently, my home was full of them. I was definitely the mother on the street who would make room for the Hermit Crabs, transient crayfish and an assortment of baby birds as well as three dogs, two cats and a Bearded Dragon lizard who, despite raffish good looks was actually, well, still, a lizard.