OK, SO I LIED!

Maybe just a little. I implied that I am totally lazy.

The other day, I, that is me, took the bull by the horns, and led it out of the house! That is correct, or so it seems. With all the rain we are having, things are starting to smell musty. TLW (The Little Woman) was working this past Saturday, and so I decided to take the house apart and clean it to get rid of the musty smell.

After the dusting, mopping, and vacuuming, I washed the floors and striped down the kitchen counter, and with vinegar and hot water, wiped down the counter top. I then tackled the bathrooms, cleaning and polishing, then, the kitchen oven was dealt with. Not satisfied, I went to work on the very top of the kitchen cabinets and the two large fans in the kitchen and den, the light fixtures, and yes, even those little tiny spots and tracks that sometimes evade me! By the end of the day, I was indeed tired, but happy with the results. So what happens? #2 Son, that’s what, happens. Oh, how I pray for the last week of August, that magical time when off to college he goes.

Now don’t get me wrong, he’s a good kid, but when he is away, he really shines! He asks me that day: “Why does the house have to be clean?” This is a good question. Why? Some of you may ask: “Why”, me I ask: “Why aren’t you married and living with your wife, who can tolerate a dirty house if she wants to?”

I come down for a glass of water at 12 mid-night, and I find pasta sauce on the counter, crumbs and other signs of a life and death struggle with a commercial box of nourishment, that at first glance looks like there were no survivors!

I’m starting to sound like my mother! “MY KITCHEN!” Bad: no? I need a hobby, one that takes me to distant places, where #2 wouldn’t find me. I tried to keep it clean. I wanted to set a record with #2 in the house of 24 hours. Not 24 minutes, not 24 seconds, but a whole 24 hours. It is a record which will never happen. They may break Joe DiMaggio’s 56 consecutive game hitting streak, but 24 hours with #2 in the house will NEVER happen.

So, I retreat quietly to my recliner, and think of ways to avoid doing anything, until the end of August. If you hear me sobbing, know that I tried, but never even came close to a record. No, history will look upon me as a slob, not knowing the evidence to prove otherwise was wiped out, when the refrigerator door opened to #2 Son.

Please remember all those that need our prayers, including my brother-in-law, John.