I’m a cleaner. Cleaning is a mood stabilizer for me. I get anxious, bored, stressed…I clean. Even if I’m completely content and happy with every aspect of my life, I love to clean. It calms me. I usually have the music blaring in the background and if you look through my windows you’ll no doubt see me cutting a rug with my mop or vacuum cleaner as I dance around, inhaling the pine fresh scent and cleaning my ass off!
My husband, God bless him, enjoys a clean house and always offers to lend a hand. I generally don’t take him up on it for several reasons: first, my husband is wonderful and competent in many, many areas. Cleaning? Not so much. He tries; he just doesn’t have the same “white glove inspection” mindset as me, so I usually end up following him around cleaning areas he missed. Baseboards, for instance. He would never think to wipe down the baseboards. I, on the other hand, am fairly obsessive about it. So, really, it’s just easier for me to do it myself. Plus, it’s honestly a bigger help to me if he can keep our 4-year-old son occuppied while I go on a crazy cleaning spree…though they almost always end up
dirtying up walking through my just-washed kitchen floor. Doesn’t matter if I do it first or save it for last; they will walk over it, and they will have mud on their shoes.
Anyway. Several weeks ago, Aaron and I were having some friends over on a Saturday night. The day had gotten away from me and I was rushing around to finish cleaning before our company arrived. Aaron, ever the concerned husband, asked if he could do anything to help. Looking at the clock and doing a quick calculation in my head in terms of tasks still to be accomplished versus the expected arrival time of our guests, I took him up on it. This scene ensued:
“It would be great if you could just clean our toilet and then clean the main bathroom,” I said.
We have a bathroom off our bedroom and I had cleaned the rest of it, but hadn’t done the commode yet. And the main bathroom on the second floor is really Jack’s bathroom, which Aaron also uses. In other words, it’s basically a boy’s bathroom, and as such, I try never to enter it because, well, it’s just really unpleasant.
“Sure, I can do that,” Aaron replied. He headed off to get the supplies he needed and I continued dusting our bedroom.
Several minutes later, I hear Aaron yell from our bathroom, “You want me to clean just the bowl or the whole thing?”
Before I got a chance to answer, in what I assure you would have been a snarky manner, the synapses in his brain started firing again and he added quickly, “Why don’t I just do the whole thing.”
My faith had been restored until 5 minutes later when I here him call from the main bathroom, “You probably want me to clean the tub too, huh?”
Who are these people who are bitching about intrusive searches by the TSA before they’re allowed to board an airplane? I for one am quite opposed to being fondled by a stranger. But you know what? If that keeps me from being turned into kibbles and bits by some terrorist who figures out who to effectively smuggle explosives into his tighty whities, then feel away, my friend. Personally, as one who tends to travel by train, I think Amtrak should consider some security measures. Because honestly? The few times I’ve traveled to New York via the Acela, I could have loaded the H-bomb into the overhead compartment and no one would have blinked.