The Astroturf Is Greener
(June 2007)
There are acorns on my coffee table. They aren’t there to be eaten; they’re just there because one of the boys in my house -- either my 12-year old stepson or my 42-year old husband -- took the time to bring them in and deposit them there instead of in the trashcan.
There are BB gun pellets on that same coffee table, along with a generous scattering of them on the hallway floor that I keep stepping on and that results in my continually doing a deranged sort of sliding dance whenever I enter that part of the house. There’s also a BB pile outside in the backyard. Next to the rusty beer cans that are now embedded with holes.
There are clothes piled everywhere: in the basement, on the arm of the living room couch, along the stairs to the second floor, in the guest bedroom, and on my side of the bed. And they aren’t even my clothes.
There are mounds of Kleenex on the floor and dishes that made it to the kitchen counter but -- for some unknown reason -- eluded getting into the dishwasher that’s strategically placed six inches away. And there are mugs -- mugs and glasses and cups -- everywhere I look, because apparently it’s easier to use a fresh glass every time you’re going to get a drink instead of the one you conveniently left by the spot you just vacated.
It’s not easy sharing the house with two boys who are much . . . looser . . . in their cleanliness habits than am I. I look around at the clutter that piles up and hope to hell no one drops by unexpectedly and sees us in our natural state. I look at our yard, its patchy grass and piles of work lumber -- and, of course, mugs and clothes -- and I find I don’t want to invite anyone over for dinner because either they’d have to pick their way through the debris to get to the door or I’d have to torch the place just to clean it up.
I worry that the salesmen who stop by will think we’re white trash.
You know it’s bad when you’re worried what salesmen think.
My friend Lindsay lives down the street. She’s got a cute little duplex that’s small but cozy. It’s got a tiny yard with lots of flowers and her house is always clean, even when I drop by unexpectedly. And she even manages this despite the fact that she has a large dog and a housecat.
I sometimes envy her, I’ll admit. Her boyfriend moved in after they’d been dating about four months, and for the last two years he’s helped her update the place. It’s just the two of them and their pets: no kids or ex-spouses or businesses in the backyard that are run from the kitchen table (and coffee table and bedside table). Messes are easy to clean. It’s tidy.
They say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Sometimes it’s hard not to agree. It’s not that I want Lindsay’s entire life. I love my husband and I love our life with his son. I love that there’s a fire kept going in the woodstove all winter and that I haven’t had to cook since the day we moved in together. I love that this house, this big, messy, cluttered house, has got lots of places to go and be alone when you need it. But I suppose the house and yard sometimes get to feel a little too chaotic, and that reminds me how sharing my life with two other beings makes my life chaotic, and then I start wishing for the simplicity I see in Lindsay’s house. In Lindsay’s boyfriend. In Lindsay’s neat little life.
At times like these, when I’m comparing her green grass to my patchy lawn, I remind myself that everything comes with a price. I get to have a warm house, but it comes with a messy yard. I get to have a food all the time, but it comes with scattered dishes. Most of all, I get to have love -- wonderful, heart-racing, soul-lifting love -- but it comes with a man who’s life is not quite as tidy as I might wish it to be. While Lindsay waits for her boyfriend to propose, I’m married to a man who couldn’t wait to marry me.
Although I sometimes feel that my husband’s messiness is a sign of disrespect for me, I know it’s really just the way he is. The thoughtlessness he shows in it is more than made up for with the thoughtfulness he shows me in thousands of other ways. And so, rather than nag and whine and yell about the clutter all the time, I just buy baskets and periodically sweep all the paper and pellets and clothes into them. Then my house -- and my life -- is clean again.
It’s like that green grass. It doesn’t stay green on it’s own, you know. You have to work at it and cultivate it and love it to keep it healthy and alive. But you have to compromise, too. I’ve come to realize I’ll never be able to have the exact green grass I’d once envisioned. But I know by now that that’s OK. So, instead of nagging and whining and yelling about it, if I can’t have green grass . . . I’ll get Astroturf.
There are acorns on my coffee table. They aren’t there to be eaten; they’re just there because one of the boys in my house -- either my 12-year old stepson or my 42-year old husband -- took the time to bring them in and deposit them there instead of in the trashcan.
There are BB gun pellets on that same coffee table, along with a generous scattering of them on the hallway floor that I keep stepping on and that results in my continually doing a deranged sort of sliding dance whenever I enter that part of the house. There’s also a BB pile outside in the backyard. Next to the rusty beer cans that are now embedded with holes.
There are clothes piled everywhere: in the basement, on the arm of the living room couch, along the stairs to the second floor, in the guest bedroom, and on my side of the bed. And they aren’t even my clothes.
There are mounds of Kleenex on the floor and dishes that made it to the kitchen counter but -- for some unknown reason -- eluded getting into the dishwasher that’s strategically placed six inches away. And there are mugs -- mugs and glasses and cups -- everywhere I look, because apparently it’s easier to use a fresh glass every time you’re going to get a drink instead of the one you conveniently left by the spot you just vacated.
It’s not easy sharing the house with two boys who are much . . . looser . . . in their cleanliness habits than am I. I look around at the clutter that piles up and hope to hell no one drops by unexpectedly and sees us in our natural state. I look at our yard, its patchy grass and piles of work lumber -- and, of course, mugs and clothes -- and I find I don’t want to invite anyone over for dinner because either they’d have to pick their way through the debris to get to the door or I’d have to torch the place just to clean it up.
I worry that the salesmen who stop by will think we’re white trash.
You know it’s bad when you’re worried what salesmen think.
My friend Lindsay lives down the street. She’s got a cute little duplex that’s small but cozy. It’s got a tiny yard with lots of flowers and her house is always clean, even when I drop by unexpectedly. And she even manages this despite the fact that she has a large dog and a housecat.
I sometimes envy her, I’ll admit. Her boyfriend moved in after they’d been dating about four months, and for the last two years he’s helped her update the place. It’s just the two of them and their pets: no kids or ex-spouses or businesses in the backyard that are run from the kitchen table (and coffee table and bedside table). Messes are easy to clean. It’s tidy.
They say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Sometimes it’s hard not to agree. It’s not that I want Lindsay’s entire life. I love my husband and I love our life with his son. I love that there’s a fire kept going in the woodstove all winter and that I haven’t had to cook since the day we moved in together. I love that this house, this big, messy, cluttered house, has got lots of places to go and be alone when you need it. But I suppose the house and yard sometimes get to feel a little too chaotic, and that reminds me how sharing my life with two other beings makes my life chaotic, and then I start wishing for the simplicity I see in Lindsay’s house. In Lindsay’s boyfriend. In Lindsay’s neat little life.
At times like these, when I’m comparing her green grass to my patchy lawn, I remind myself that everything comes with a price. I get to have a warm house, but it comes with a messy yard. I get to have a food all the time, but it comes with scattered dishes. Most of all, I get to have love -- wonderful, heart-racing, soul-lifting love -- but it comes with a man who’s life is not quite as tidy as I might wish it to be. While Lindsay waits for her boyfriend to propose, I’m married to a man who couldn’t wait to marry me.
Although I sometimes feel that my husband’s messiness is a sign of disrespect for me, I know it’s really just the way he is. The thoughtlessness he shows in it is more than made up for with the thoughtfulness he shows me in thousands of other ways. And so, rather than nag and whine and yell about the clutter all the time, I just buy baskets and periodically sweep all the paper and pellets and clothes into them. Then my house -- and my life -- is clean again.
It’s like that green grass. It doesn’t stay green on it’s own, you know. You have to work at it and cultivate it and love it to keep it healthy and alive. But you have to compromise, too. I’ve come to realize I’ll never be able to have the exact green grass I’d once envisioned. But I know by now that that’s OK. So, instead of nagging and whining and yelling about it, if I can’t have green grass . . . I’ll get Astroturf.
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