Spring Cleaning & Ass Kicking for Lent

I am not the Bible-thumping Catholic girl I once thought I was, or pretended to be, but I still try to observe Holy Days and some of the traditions of the church that I knew growing up. Every year, I have something that I want to do for Lent. I don’t necessarily only look at it as giving up a vice, or depriving myself of something that I really love. My results with that approach have been disappointing in the past. Swearing off my once-a-month cup of birthday cake frosting at work won’t cut it (and besides it’s only one cup on one day, so really not much of a sacrifice). Banishing foul language will never work for me; having a goal so out of reach will only set me up for failure. For me, it is just as fitting to make a positive change or to do something that will benefit somebody else. But as with most things, there is a certain amount of preparation that I need to do to feel like I am ready to embark on something new.

My preferred preparation and Lenten kick-off included celebrating Fat Tuesday with friends at a local restaurant. There is nothing like a pint-sized Cajun martini to cleanse the soul, Limit One per Guest, Please. A jalapeno is marinated in vodka and vermouth for twenty four hours and then served over hot-pickled cherry peppers. Mother of God, that is good stuff. I believe my friend called it moonshine and wondered aloud if it was made in a bathtub. Purple, gold and green beads, feathered Mardi Gras masks, and loud, off-key singing to live music made for a perfect night. Due to the one drink limit imposed by the restaurant, I would say my behavior was extremely tame for my last hurrah and having celebrated appropriately, I was ready for Ash Wednesday and the following forty-plus long days of sacrifice and self-reflection.

If you’ve ever received ashes on Ash Wednesday, you’re familiar with the words spoken when the priest makes the sign of the cross on your forehead: ‘Remember that you are from dust, and to dust you shall return.’ Well, thank you very much for the reminder, Father. In my own twisted way, those words-the very mention of dust as the leftovers from last year’s Palm Sunday and now reduced to black ashes are emblazoned on my forehead-are my personal call to action: it’s Spring cleaning time!  Rather than spend the rest of my time in church being prayerful and pensive, I pull out a pen and make a housecleaning list on the back of the weekly donation envelope. I can hardly wait to get home. I know three very special people who will be thrilled and personally touched by my exciting revelation and the plans I have in store for them. It’s March, and we haven’t done a really thorough housecleaning since we packed up all of our Christmas decorations…which, by the way, we managed to do this year before the end of January.

She looks so happy.

I know many people who have weekly or bi-weekly housekeepers that come in and do the dirty work. Not me, but a tight budget isn’t the only reason why I don’t indulge. Nor is it because I would feel the guilty need to clean before the housekeeper  arrived to make the job easier, although that is certainly a serious consideration. It’s because I like housecleaning. I’m not anything like Teresa, who is best known for her dishtowel accessory thrown over her shoulder, in case she comes across something that needs cleaning. I don’t want to do it every day, but if it’s a big job, I’m determined to do it, from start to finish, bathroom cleaning to cobweb removal to hauling of unused, outgrown items to the thrift store. Of course, being a mother and wanting nothing but the best for my children and loving them unselfishly and unconditionally, it’s my duty and privilege to share the housecleaning with them. Besides, it allows us precious quality time, as we work harmoniously together, a loving, giving, unselfish, cohesive team. Until of course, somebody ‘gets the easy job’ and all hell breaks loose. 

How we get to the point of needing an entire weekend set aside to clean, scrub, and eliminate unnecessary junk is probably the same as most people. There just is never enough time in the day, even with four willing or coerced participants. I like clean and tidy but it’s a constant struggle. And it’s nice to think that everything has a place, but rarely does it happen that way. Imagine my sheer joy upon arriving home and finding a bike parked inside the front hall, socks under the computer desk, backpacks and paperwork piled on the dining room table, a blue feather duster standing upright in my pretty flowered pen cup, and the cat brush dumped in the middle of the floor. But I’m guilty, too. There was a half-unpacked suitcase sitting in the corner of my room, and last Thursday as I started laundry, I had to go to my car to retrieve eleven hangers that were tossed in the trunk. My morning coffee cup often sits unfinished on my nightstand. And my nightstand? While the bottom drawer used to be the home to all the junk I was going to look at ‘later,’ now both drawers are overstuffed with crap I don’t need nor will I ever look at again. On the corner of my dresser is a stack of magazines I will undoubtedly never page through, and at last count, I have four brand new photo albums that I bought last January. They still have price tags on the outside, but no pictures inside.

But that was Wednesday night. Today is Sunday and I am happy to report that my Lent has started off with a bang. Holy God, I’ve been productive. I cleaned out my closet (again) and I finally unpacked the suitcase. I didn’t get to the photo albums but managed to organize all of my digital picture files. The bathrooms are clean and the cobwebs are down. I even thoroughly cleaned the refrigerator for the first time in weeks and weeks. The dining room table still has a stack of paperwork and backpacks, and so I passed up the March daffodils at Trader Joe’s because they would be plain ugly sitting next to junk. I washed my car at one of the do-it-yourself places, and was blessed with Mariachi music blasting from the car next to mine, as I vacuumed and cleaned the windows. Tonight, while dinner was cooking, I sat on the kitchen floor (once again) and organized a cupboard, matching lids to plastic containers. I also realized that we have three potato mashers, so two are going to the thrift store. My next project will be to tackle the backyard next weekend. I know the boys will be happy to hear that I’ll be orchestrating the entire thing. It should be a beautiful almost-Spring day in the yard together.

After careful consideration, I made the critical decision that I would actually give up something for Lent. I am depriving myself of butter. I love it, the whipped, salted kind that comes in a tub, but I quit eating it over two years ago. This past fall, my kids took me to dinner for my birthday. I fell off the wagon that night when the bread and butter were placed in the center of the table. I bought a tub of butter the next day. It’s the work of the devil, I swear it is…the gateway vice that leads me into temptation, and before I know it, I am helping myself to a baguette or sourdough toast, or dying to make Irish Soda Bread. So for Lent, I’ve switched back to I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. By the way, it really is hard to believe.

One of my goals for 2011 was to go back to my personal trainer at the gym by the end of February. Well…I failed. But not for lack of wanting to do it; honestly, I just can’t afford such a high ticket item right now, but hope to do it sometime later in the year. Instead I chose the more affordable option of getting my ass kicked six times a week in a kickboxing program at a local martial arts place. Orientation was yesterday and included a fitness evaluation. In a nutshell: I’m screwed. For the next nine weeks, six days a week, I will alternate between kickboxing and resistance training, as well as crying and crawling to my car. It’s overwhelming and scary and exciting and heavenly, all rolled into one. It coincides with Lent, actually running into mid-May, and it’s (almost) entirely selfish of me, but I’m excited to see how I progress.  

Another 2011 goal was to volunteer in the kitchen at a local homeless shelter twice a month. I’ve failed miserably at this as well. By mid January, I knew it was too lofty a goal and decided to make a substitution…which is not, contrary to what my smart -ass friend said, the same as changing the rules in the middle of a game. I decided to start donating blood on a regular basis. It doesn’t take much time, and I have plenty of blood to share. You’ll be happy to know that I have clean, O negative blood. Honestly, I do. I donated in January and am scheduled to go back before the end of March. There are other things I am working on during the next 40+ days, and hopefully beyond that, but some personal and not interesting enough to share (or maybe too interesting to share). I will say that at some point in the next six weeks, I am forcing myself to go to Confession…and not the type where you sit in a bar with your friends and spew very private things as you have drink #4. Real Confession. In a dark little room hidden from view of the Visiting Priest (I highly recommend going to the visitors-they won't recognize your voice). I might finally tell this one about that Ash Wednesday years ago when my sisters and I tried to pass off fireplace soot as ashes... One would think that with the dusting, vacuuming, sorting of Tupperware lids, and deciding which fish I will make on Friday, I would have no time to misbehave. Well, think again. I need Lent this year. It’s a time for penance and reflection and changes, coinciding with spring daffodils, the smell of freesia and the possibility of starting fresh. And this year, I need to start fresh.