Prime Time Cleaning: A Guide to Quickly Cleaning Your Room


You’re sitting in your bedroom, your kingdom, watching the latest and greatest cartoon on cable (not dish, mind you; they’re far overrated) when the bellowing voice of your mother calls out from downstairs – a place you rarely venture. “Clean your room or no television for a week!”

“Well, cornflakes…” you think – though depending on your societal influences your vocabulary may be a tad less proper and/or… breakfast oriented. “Can it wait 45 minutes!? This episode is th-“

“Get your little keister in gear right this minute!” she screeches before you can give a full synopsis of the television show.

You give one last longing a dismal glance at the television before retrieving the remote control from… Wait. Where did the remote go? “Perhaps Mother has a point,” you mutter.

Tromp, tromp, tromp. One of your cheese-covered fingers slams against the power button on the TV set and the screen flickers to complete darkness. The disaster of your room is reflected in the black glass. Plates of month-old food rise to the ceiling in spectacular, albeit moldy, forms. Socks you’re sure crawled out from some dark abyss strangle stuffed toys and action figures that wrestle with each other on the floor. Books lay helplessly open - their spines on the verge of breaking. An inch-thick layer of undetermined filth coats the carpet and gives it a dull brown color. Yuck.

“Can’t we just hire a maid!?”

“No! Get to work!”

You mumble and grumble as you stomp over to your overfilled closest. Choosing to not dirty your favorite jeans and shirt with the crusty residue of your room, you pull the dirtiest t-shirt or sweatshirt you can find from the pile, followed by a dilapidated pair of shorts.

Geared up with appropriate attire, you tackle the dish problem first. The mold is, after all, most hazardous to your health. You search high and low, under your nightstand, and on top of your computer monitor. Within fifteen minutes, a plethora of forks, spoons, knives, plates, and bowls has gathered beside your feet. “Now what?” you ask the heavens.

Now it is time to sort the food ware into distinct and easy-to-carry piles. Forks, spoons, and knives – perhaps chopsticks and sporks if you favor some more exotic utensils – must be placed in cups. The cups are to be gently laid in bowls, which balance expertly upon stacks of flatware. You’re careful to only take what you can handle each trip to the kitchen sink. Really, you wouldn’t want to drop anything down the stairs and create a bigger mess, would you?

Back and forth. Back and forth. Finally, your scullery trips are done with. You deem it is now time to tackle the trash, although you really hate to dirty your hands with such filth. Furthermore, your garbage can is M.I.A. with very little chance of recovery. In bounds and leaps you arrive before your mother, reading as usual. “Garbage bags. I need garbage bags and gloves!” you inform her.

She sighs, tsk-tsks, and waddles off to find your desired supplies. Mothers; they always have to give you sass no matter what, huh?

It takes you at least an hour, but finally you’ve stuffed every bit of trash imaginable into a black bag that threatens to explode at any moment. A ticking time bomb of trash, if you will. Carefully, you tie a knot in the top of the bag and attempt to lift the monstrosity.

“No! Come on! That’s just not fair!” you scream in agonized protest, realizing you had left soda pop in one or more the cans now residing in the bag. The carbonated drink drips and oozes onto your carpet. In all honesty, one more stain doesn’t really matter considering how many already spot the floor. The longer you stand there, wondering how to remedy the situation, the larger the brown blotch grows.

Drip! Drop! Drip-drop! As you dash through the house to the giant garbage can in the garage, cola splatters along the hallway floors, much to your mother’s dismay. Before she can open her mouth to reprimand, you shout in a less than confident treble, “Don’t worry, Mom. I have it all under control!”

The garbage can lid slams closed atop the leaking plastic sack as you pant heavily beside the receptacle. You’re relieved the mess has been curved slightly and can now be righted. With a newly attained calm and cool demeanor, you strut past your mother, to the bathroom to retrieve some confidential supplies, and finally back to your room.

Immediately upon crossing the threshold, you pounce dramatically upon the unsightly splotch with a giant wad of paper towels and an ample squirt of carpet cleaner. “Out! Out, darned spot!” (Shakespeare would be proud to have his words paraphrased and be put to such good use.) Finished with the task at hand, you wipe your brow and stealthily sneak around the halls to clean any remnants of your mad dash to the garage.

“Holy banana bread,” you mutter, re-entering your room. “This place is almost clean!” Indeed, the only tasks left are to clear your toys, books, and clothes from the floor and various other surfaces in your bedroom. Anxious to finish the job before prime time television starts at eight, you designate piles as “clean clothes”, “dirty clothes”, “throw away”, and “give away”.

You first start sifting through the clothes, smelling your favorites to determine what pile they belong in. Eventually, you come across a ratty pair of underpants that should never see the light of day again. Obviously, they must be tossed in the “throw away” pile. Later, a miniscule t-shirt that you haven’t worn in years surfaces; other than it being too small, it is in perfectly good condition. The kind-hearted soul you are, you chuck it in the “give away” pile.

The pattern continues, and all clothes are soon sorted. Any clothes that have miraculously stayed clean are placed on clothes hangers you didn’t even realize you owned; filthy rags are discarded into a hamper or basket; and give/throw aways are placed in two separate bags.

Finally, the least rigorous task has come. You know exactly where every book should go on the bookshelf and what box or nook each toy belongs in. Roaming around the room and picking up these items, you occasionally become side-tracked by their entertainment value. But of course, time is of the essence and you continue with the mission.

Some toys have obviously been neglected for eons. Though it grieves you to part with possessions of days-gone-by, they are placed delicately in the “give away” sack of clothes. With a heavy heart and a heavy sigh, you bid farewell to the bag and pass it off to your mother.

“I’m proud of you,” she coos, lovingly patting your head. “It’s not easy to part with toys and clothes. Now, let’s check on the progress you’ve made, shall we?”

Eagerly, you tug her by the hand and stand her squarely in the doorway. “Ta-da! Look, I did it all by myself.” You look to your twiddling feet and up to her examining stare. “So… am I done?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Now, don’t let it get this messy again, ok?”

“Aye, aye!” is your ecstatic reply while you push her from your room and shut the door.

You lick your lips, and dive into your bed sheets, where you are finally able to find your remote. “Success!” The TV screen blares on with a push of a button. “Mission accomplished – all before prime time.”