Neurospicy Cleaning Tips From a Domestic Chaos Goblin

Chaos Goblin Mornings and Parisian Jazz

I love a clean house. Not in a Pinterest-perfect, colour-coordinated storage box way (though I do enjoy a clear bench and a good fold), but in a lived-in, relaxed, everything-has-its-place kind of way. I love the smell of a just-cleaned kitchen, the soft lines of a vacuumed rug, the way everything feels easier to handle when the house is in order. It doesn’t just look nice, it soothes my nervous system. But here’s the kicker: I’m neurospicy, and executive dysfunction often wants to fight me on this.

Despite that, I actually thoroughly enjoy cleaning. Yep, I’m one of those weirdos. On a Saturday morning, I wake up, stretch dramatically like a cat in a rom-com, and pop on some Parisian Jazz. Lulu, in full chaos demon mode, immediately objects, because according to him, if I’m upright, it should mean snuggles or breakfast or both. But I’m already on a mission, flinging open the windows like I’m in a musical, and grabbing my gloves like they’re armour. It’s go-time.

But there’s a limit. I have a solid 45 minutes before Cleaning Bry vanishes and Chaos Goblin Bry clocks in. If I sit down? Game over*. No more cleaning will be done that day. So I treat it like a game. A race against time. Can I finish mopping before my brain decides to spiral into three unrelated projects, followed by a nap I didn’t see coming? Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ve got little hacks and rituals to help me stay on track.

*I blame childhood conditioning for this one. Saturday mornings meant no cartoons until I’d dusted and scrubbed the bathroom to mum-grade perfection, so I learned fast that if I blitzed it properly the first time, I could earn my telly time in peace. Now, decades later, my brain still thinks Saturday = clean frenzy, followed by a hard shutdown the moment my bum hits the couch. Classic Pavlov, but with Dettol.

Micro-Cleaning Like a Ninja

I don’t rely on motivation. I rely on little traps I’ve set for myself. Let’s talk about the kettle game. While I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I see how much I can clean. Wipe down the counters? Done. Put dishes away? Done. Scrub the sink? Done-ish. It’s a tiny pocket of time where my brain isn’t looking for dopamine elsewhere. It’s got a task, a ticking clock, and a small win waiting on the other side. Neurospicy brains love a win.

The same goes for toast. If I’m making toast, I’ve got a few minutes to blitz something. I call these “toaster tasks.” Wipe a surface. Empty the bin. Re-home all the cups that have somehow made their way into my living room(again). I never try to do it all. I just do one or two little jobs each time. And over a day or two, suddenly things look suspiciously tidy.

This method works because it dodges the overwhelm. I don’t start the day thinking, “I have to clean the whole house.” I start the day thinking, “I’ll change the kitty litter while my tea steeps.” And then I congratulate myself like I’ve just mopped the Louvre. That’s the level of celebration we’re talking about here. If I make it through a full load of laundry, I deserve a medal and possibly a nap.

Outsource Like a Lazy Genius

Enter: my beloved Rhoomba. If you have executive dysfunction and don’t already own one of these magic floor gnomes, please consider treating yourself. I don’t vacuum anymore – I press a button and go about my business while Rhoomba scoots around like a determined toddler. I don’t care if it misses a corner or nudges Lulu’s tail. The bulk of the work is done without me. Bliss.

This is one of the smartest ways I support myself. Because the less I have to initiate, the more likely I am to keep my space clean. Starting a task is the hardest part. If I can eliminate the starting part entirely? That’s a win. Which is also why I keep my cleaning sprays and cloths in every room. Bathroom? Sprays under the sink. Bedroom? A cloth and a bottle of all-purpose cleaner in the wardrobe. Zero excuses.

Another game changer? The shower squeegee. At the end of every shower, I squeegee the glass, wipe the tiles, and rinse the screen. It takes less than 90 seconds, and somehow turns me into the kind of person who always has a clean shower. I’m already naked, already wet, and already there. It doesn’t feel like a task. It feels like the end of the shower. I don’t overthink it. I just do it.

Trick Yourself, Gently

I treat cleaning like an NPC side quest. Not a big dramatic overhaul, but little pockets of sparkle tucked into my day. I don’t clean because I’m supposed to. I clean because future me deserves a clean sink when she goes to brush her teeth at midnight. And because it’s the fastest way to feel like I have my life together when I absolutely do not.

Music is essential. Sometimes it’s my “Feels” playlist. Sometimes it’s “Witchy Tunes”. And sometimes it’s French Jazz and I pretend I’m in a Parisian apartment with a very tiny dog named Pierre. Music keeps the vibe light and drowns out the inner monologue that’s usually yelling about unfinished work or existential dread. Make it fun. Romanticise the hell out of it.

And most importantly: forgive yourself if it doesn’t get done. If today is a chaos goblin day where nothing gets cleaned and you just eat crackers on the couch? That’s OK. The mess will wait. You’re not a failure, you’re a human with a brain that doesn’t always play fair. Be kind. Celebrate the small wins. A single clean bench is still a clean bench. That matters.

Saturday morning me: domestic goddess. Saturday afternoon me: feral couch potato.

Chaos Goblin Closing Thoughts

Here’s the thing. Being neurospicy means my energy comes in unpredictable bursts. Some days I clean the whole house in two hours and feel like a domestic goddess. Other days, I can barely get off the sofa, let alone take the bins out. But that’s life. Some days the sound of the vacuum is too much. Some days it’s the smell of bleach. That’s valid too. The goal isn’t perfection. The goal is to make it easier on myself.

I use every trick I can think of to keep things ticking over. Visual cues. Timers. Tiny tasks. Celebratory Cheezels. Lulu still thinks I should just nap and cuddle all day, but he also loves a freshly vacuumed rug, so he’s learning to cope. And me? I’m learning that a clean house doesn’t need to mean overwhelm, dread, or burnout.

It just takes a bit of planning, a dash of mischief, and a very strong relationship with your kettle.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the toast just popped. Time to go wipe the bathroom sink. Chaos Goblin Bry is circling. Must. Stay. Focused.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit  BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG  @BryJaimea

1. We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency 11:56
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