“Why is this place so trashed?” my daughter Megan asks me. I should be asking her that. I’m the mother. She has been camped out in the living room since she moved back with me after having her own place for several years. The living room basically looks like what her bedroom used to look like – unrecognizable as a room and unfit for human habitation.
Think of the TLC program “Hoarding – Buried Alive, ” only the lite version. Piles of stuff are everywhere – only it is stuff that is used regularly, washed, (eventually) and nothing (well, some things) needs to be thrown out, just organized. I tried contacting the good people at TLC for some help, even offering to pay them to come here, but they weren’t having it.
Shoes, hoodies, half full water bottles and empty cigarette packs are part of the décor on the tables, floor and the couches. It’s not unusual to see a bra hanging from the fan over the dining room table, or a laundry basket in the bay window. We usually have to clear a path from the door to get in and out.
When showering, Megan likes to pile her dirty clothes behind the bathroom door. This results in problems getting in and out of the bathroom. Sometimes I just borrow one of my neighbors’ bathrooms, as this is easier than trying to squeeze through the small space. Megan can fit okay but I’m kind of a big girl. My neighbors have gotten used to me and I always leave a dollar on the sink.
To deal with the situation, I have turned a blind eye to the disaster constantly in progress. Yelling, complaining and demanding it be straightened up is an exercise in futility. I practice exercises I have learned online where I convince myself that my apartment is clean, tidy and completely orderly.
I’m wondering however, if there is a “Supernanny” for adult children? She could come in and, say, force Megan to straighten up by taking away her makeup and hair straightener? Ditch her razors and deodorant? Blow up her laptop? All these things might be effective for a day, but not longer. Megan would just go out and buy the stuff again.
Even our cats have been known to disappear for a day or two; they never go outside, they just find odd places to hang out, like empty suitcases and laundry baskets or the dishwasher, which Megan has a habit of leaving open all the time.
I have to admit; some of it is not Megan’s fault. A disconnected television – which works sometimes but mostly doesn’t – sits next to the cat’s litter box. It has been there for two years; I can’t decide what to do with it. It’s a beautiful flat screen, one of the early models Megan purchased in ’06. She paid a lot of money for it — so how can we just throw it out? It does come in handy for hiding the empty grocery store bags behind, which I use to clean the litter box. Kudos to me for recycling!
Additionally, each day the mail comes and it’s primarily junk — credit card offer, various stores advertisements, weekly sales and tons of catalogs – threatening me that if I don’t order from this one, they will cease sending me another catalogue. (But they are liars; they keep sending them.) It all gets dumped on the dining room table. Every few months I go through it, when the stuff is piled about three feet high and there is not a square inch of space on the table to eat.
Moving Megan back into her bedroom seems like the obvious solution but this presents too many problems. Megan’s former room is now my computer room. There’s a large desk – with, you guessed it – piles of papers on it. There’s also a pull out sofa. In essence, the entire apartment would have to be revamped. This would require manpower, time, money, energy and a great deal of planning. Just thinking about causes me a trip to the psychiatrist.
Are we filthy? No. Garbage gets thrown out, the toilet, sink and shower get scrubbed, litter boxes get cleaned regularly and vacuuming is done. Granted, I have to take a handful of pills and down a quart of vodka to perform these tasks, but at least it gets done.
To be safe, now if people are going to come over, we simply make them sign a disclaimer that they cannot sue us or hold us responsible in any way for any bodily injury occurring due to being in our apartment from, say, items falling upon them or tripping over something on the floor.
There are, however, bright spots. My microwave is my pride and joy and is always immaculate. I have this thing about having a clean microwave. I once saw a Jay Leno program where they went around and checked people’s refrigerators to see how dirty and nasty most were. Most were pretty disgusting.
I hope someday someone will show up at my door with cameras and say, “We’re doing a show on the condition of microwaves — can we see yours?” And I’d proudly show them mine, after they sign the disclaimer of course.