I like housecleaning. I like the smell of Pine Sol in the morning. I like the feel of plush synthetic fibers underfoot. Always have.
I carry my cleaning supplies in a Tupperware caddy. Each bottle has a Braille label and a Pen Friend label, too. Wouldn’t want to confuse Easy Off with Easy On. My heavy artillery is my Dyson upright vacuum cleaner. It’s bagless and has more attachments than the iPhone has apps.
As I clean, I have visions of brilliance. When I spray Murphy’s Oil Soap on a clean cloth and take a few swipes at our dining table, I envision a gleaming surface shining up at me. I use touch as quality control. “Spray, swipe, feel the glow” becomes my groove.
My archenemy is carpet snags. You know, the strands in the rug that unravel and choke the vacuum cleaner. Makes a hellish sound and smells like the cat’s on fire. After the dining room rug outfoxed me one too many times, I snapped. “As God is my witness, I’ll never be a victim again.” Out went the rug.
I like to think I do a good job housecleaning. In my mind, I bring out the best and the brightest. Nobody around says otherwise, even when the pile of dust, dog hair and crud the mop leaves behind looks like something the cat brought up.
Some say housecleaning is boring. Not when I clean along with the Kinks or the Stones. “Flashdance” energizes; I clean rhythmically. Other times, I listen to books. Only 446 cleaning days remain before “War and Peace” is won.
In our household, my wife grocery shops and prepares lots of meals. I clean and launder. That’s how we do things. On Father’s Day, I cleaned the house, then sat down to a glass of chocolate milk and a plate of cookies with the dog and the cats. Maybe I really don’t like housecleaning. But I do it. I do a lot of things because they need to get done. I try to do them well. Maybe I don’t clean as well as I picture. Still, I contribute. I get rewarded. That’s life.