If My Floors Are Spotless It Means I'm A Really Good Person.

A couple of Sundays ago me, my sister and two of my sister-in-laws threw a wedding shower here at my house. My brother is getting married in a few weeks and we wanted to give a warm welcome to my future sister-in-law, something to redeem ourselves after an incident where her teenaged daughter was unintentionally subjected to a recent dinner conversation between me and some of my family members. That would be the one where we were discussing the movie Borat, specifically the naked fight scene in the hotel and about what the fat guy's genitals might possibly look like.

The shower went off without a hitch, but I'm still trying to recover. Not from the event itself, but from the countless hours of prep beforehand, the frenzy that precedes any instance where people will be entering my home and in my mind, judging me mercilessly on the placement of my couch cushions and the number of scuff marks on my walls. It's as if I can hear them saying to each other after they've left, "You know, I used to like her, until I saw the dirty grout in her bathroom and that hideous shower curtain." You get the picture.

I've written here before about my tendency to stress out whenever people are coming to visit, but it merits some more scrutiny to see what is at the bottom of this freakish behavior. I'm convinced it has it's roots in my childhood, when I remember hotel stays where my mom would furiously clean the room before we checked out because "We don't want anyone thinking Japanese people are slobs." This also explains the lavish tips she would leave for the maids because "We don't want anyone thinking Japanese people are cheap." I figure that ninety percent of my neuroses can be explained by this, that in failing to do certain things or present a certain image I am in a sense disgracing my entire culture. In other words, it's entirely possible to bring shame on the Japanese race as a whole just by letting anyone see that salsa stain on my coffee table.

But save for a couple of million dollars in therapy or a successful brain transplant, I'm stuck with this affliction for now. Unfortunately it's gone beyond a personal problem, as the days or even weeks leading up to any type of gathering at our house involves the torture of the entire family as I enlist their help in making our place a gleaming glimmering shrine to cleanliness and orderliness. I know it's confusing for the girls when our living room, which on a good day resembles a homeless encampment for pre-teen packrats, suddenly is expected to look like page 45 of the Pottery Barn catalog. Or when I have to nerve to actually ask them to pick up the thirteen pairs of shoes they've managed to amass in a pile near the front door.

I have to say that Rigel suffers the most from my pre-party hysteria but to his credit he's usually pretty accommodating. For instance this time he dutifully agreed, on the day before the shower, to buy an outdoor patio heater because I was convinced all of my guests would freeze to death outside while eating their plates of miniature quiche. He braved the insanity of Home Depot on a Saturday and then stayed up past midnight assembling that behemoth in our cold backyard. I believe his last words to me before he went to sleep that night were, "It better be cold, damn cold tomorrow." When we awoke to a warm, sunny day it was understandable why he was in no mood to consider any of my remaining tasks I had laid out for him, absolutely refusing to paint the trashcans to match the garden as I had requested.

From what I can tell, men don't seem to suffer the same affliction. I can bet you'll never hear your husband say, "You know, the guys are coming over tomorrow. I'd better vacuum the hallway and put out some matching towels." A couple of weeks ago a friend of Rigel's stopped by to work on some music, and I carefully watched the preparation that took place. From what I could see it involved nothing more than him checking the refrigerator for cold beer and then kicking a bag out of the way that was blocking his amp. It was as if he could care less that the entryway was littered with the girls' clothes or that there were absolutely no guest soaps to be found in the bathroom. What freedom! How I envy him!

My obsessive rituals aren't entirely without merit, as our house never looks better than in the days leading up to a party. It feels good to finally scrub that months-old tomato sauce stain off the counter and there's no match for that warm fuzzy feeling you get when the newspapers are cleared away and you see your dining room table for the first time in six months. I'd be lying if I said my domestic inferiority complex is getting any better, but I certainly don't want to discourage anyone from visiting - all of my family and friends are welcome whenever they please. Just give me three months notice.

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tags: cleanliness is next to godliness

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