The Fabled PC says it’s just because I’m “one of those irresponsible,
untidy, chaotic right-brained individuals” who just can’t follow a
straight line of logic. Maybe she’s right. But I still
don’t think she is really looking at the Big Picture.
I became
aware of what was going on only slowly, as I was restfully blowing
up demons and ugly bite-you’s amid a cacophony of stereophonic FM
sound blasting from my computer’s speakers. I was down in The
Catacombs (playing Doom II), trying to figure out how I would get
past this pesky corner to pick up a sorely needed chaingun. The trouble was that a big goaty-looking guy would keep nailing me
with a green fireball.
My dainty bride opened the door to my
little chamber and tossed a bundle of papers on the floor near me.
She closed the door.
I really was still down there in The
Catacombs, and only idly wondered for a couple of seconds what it
was that she had deposited. But that demon was requiring my
immediate attention. And besides -- regarding the powers of
observation granted to your Humble Obedient, my wife of the last 45
years has often pointed out that if I were to be hit in the face with
a sack of horse-apples, the only thing I would smell would be the
seeds.
PC came in again with my backgammon game and an old jacket. Plunk. Down on the floor. Now I had to move my feet to
make room. Boom. Ka-POW. Zing. No problem,
I adjust easily.
PC was back. She had a couple of books,
and plopped them on the computer table.
Uh-oh. Now I noticed. My darling redhead was running all over the house, cleaning up. She had the vacuum cleaner out. She had picked up all my comfortable
slobbery and tossed it into the sacrosanct confines of my computer
room. She was dusting and straightening and puttermousing like
fifteen-to-the-dozen. It could mean only one thing.
The
Cleaning Lady was coming!
With the full knowledge of the futility
of the gesture, I put the demons on “hold” and walked into the living
room to ask why she was cleaning up so that the Cleaning Lady could
clean up. PC saw me coming, and beat me to the punch.
“Oh,
good. I was just about to call you. Help me move this
sofa,” she panted, “I need to clean under it. The Cleaning Lady is
coming tomorrow.”
“But...” I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere,
but I had forgotten the reason why we had to clean the whole house
the day before the Cleaning Lady arrived to clean the house.
“But... Why are we doing this? Why are we...” it was we, now, “cleaning
the house if the Cleaning Lady is coming tomorrow?”
PC gave me
a Number Six Look Of Patient Despair At Ever Getting Through.
“We
aren’t cleaning,” she explained, dusting the sofa bottom, “we are straightening so the Cleaning Lady doesn’t have to work through
a bunch of clutter.”
Now I remembered from the last time. But the part I couldn’t follow was: what clutter? My copper-topped
angel always kept the house in slightly tauter condition than a Marine
boot camp barracks.
Of course, my little den of comfort was beyond
the Pale. The Cleaning Lady was enjoined from ever opening the
door. So it stayed comfortable, with boxes and crates and the
small stuffed rhinoceros standing on a few dozen back issues of National
Geographic and those magazines trashy enough to print my articles.
The
fact the Cleaning Lady was coming at all was a result of PC going
to work. She did this to help put Dr. Scooter through college
and medical school.
But when work made it so that she did not
have the time to puttermouse constantly throughout the house, PC realized
that we would have to have someone to help.
I feel no guilt that
I was never considered for this task. There are innate advantages
to right-brainitude.
We finished the second scrubbing of the
kitchen floor about bedtime.
We were Ready For The Cleaning
Lady.
But I still tried to follow the clear, logical path. We were cleaning up (oop, I mean straightening up) so that the Cleaning
Lady wouldn’t be cluttered. But it took hours to straighten up.
“Isn’t
the house nice and clean now?” What a dumb question!
“Of
course not, it’s not deep-cleaned,” exasperated, “it’s just straightened.”
“Oh.”
This
deep-cleaning stuff must really be something. As I looked around
the house, it looked like something you see in Doris Day movies.
It
is now time, Gentle Reader, to skip to the following evening. The Fabled PC is waiting for me at the door. She looks thirty
percent sad, and seventy percent consternated.
“I feel so sad. But I’m mad, too.”
She sighs, creating a sort of jiggling effect
that I always went for, and drops the bomb.
“I had to let the
Cleaning Lady go. She didn’t do a good job.” This scene
has played out a dozen times before, so I begin to tremble with terrified
anticipation
Nothing keeps my bride down for long. She
immediately perks up, and says:
“But Whatzername down the block
gave me the name of a really wonderful Cleaning Lady!”
My knees
are weak with terror, for I know what’s coming. PC’s eyes are
glowing with the light of a zealot.
“We’re going to have to give
the house a real good straightening so that the New Cleaning Lady
will have a good start!”
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