Clean-up Time

Once a week, I flit around the house, noticeably crazed, cleaning up after three or four slobs, depending on the college boy’s whereabouts. The ritual varies little from week to week. It begins with the scooping up of random dog hair, baggies full, enough to form a whole new dog – preferably one that doesn’t consume a bar of soap, upchuck its bubbly contents, and amass a $500 vet bill.

Next comes the rapid Hoovering of school books off the kitchen table. Loose papers, index cards, pens, pencils, quarters and pennies, old gum. In a domestic frenzy, I do my best to hide the clutter, shoving it into whatever space I can find. The hall closet, the trunk of my car, the doggy crate. I’m not proud. I will do whatever it takes to win the approval of the short and saintly figure scheduled to arrive momentarily.

Speed it up. Hop to it. Look sharp. Let’s roll, baby. These are a few of the helpful words of encouragement I pepper with expletives, as I dart hither and yon, maneuvering the chaos into something halfway presentable. In the midst of this quest, I ponder a few questions:

Why is my son’s belt looped around the chair, instead of his waist? Why is his sock under the sofa and not his foot? Why can’t he bury his CDs under his bed, with the 900 empty water bottles and Coke cans, and not dump them atop the toaster oven? Why are his basketball shoes crushing the dinner rolls on the counter, and not tucked into his smelly gym bag, where they belong?

I conclude that there are no answers to these questions. Plus, I have no time to figure them out. I’m on deadline, people. I must keep moving before the angel sent from above arrives to judge my place of residence, and the oddball characters inhabiting it. Oh, dear God, I don’t want to disappoint her again. Or make her weep, like that time I left towels in the dryer. I meant to iron and fold them, but I was hobbling around on a foot that wasn’t broken after all – still milking it for sympathy, of course – and forgot. I’m human. Forgive me.

And so, I keep going. Picking up after people I love 99 percent of the time. If I stop to scream, I’ll lose valuable seconds… seconds I need to cram dirty forks and spoons and crusty cereal bowls into the dishwasher. Hurry up, she’s coming. There’s trash to throw out, tchotchkes to dust, a few spots that need repainting. She’ll be here soon. Make it look nice. Don’t humiliate the family again. Yes, I’m referring to the moldy sponge incident. She hasn’t recovered from that debacle. The paramedics were a little rough trying to revive her.

Ding dong. Damn! She’s here and I haven’t even scoured the toilets or remodeled the laundry room to her specifications. I’ll have to live with the shame. I open the door and in walks Blanca, the beloved housekeeper who’s been putting up with us for eight years. Or is it nine, since the last one quit? I give her a hug and apologize for the mess. The dog jumps on her and she smiles, beatifically. She’s on damage control. It’s time to work her magic. I better get out of her way. But I’m here if she needs me. Rumor has it I’m pretty good with a mop.