At Home

I know I'm not alone in this but maybe will be the only one to confess in public that I have no plans to be one of the crowd. Spring cleaning frenzy season is upon us and I'm not falling for it!

 As women (and some men, let's not be stereotypical here!) across the nation twirl feather dusters like batons with dazzling dexterity into every corner of the room and vacuum the drapes with the proper attachments, I'll be hunched over my keyboard pretending the reason I can't see sunlight streaming through my windows is it's overcast out there. No sir, nothing to do with the dirty panes. Perish the thought.

You know, grime isn't a crime. At least, not last time I checked the lawbooks. Unless of course you're knee deep in filth, which I'm not. I'm just not someone who enjoys spring cleaning much. I hate the whole concept. There, I said it. I clean enough the rest of the year to really not want to do any more than I can get away with. Too many hours of my life could be spent doing something I love instead.

Can you imagine if it was though? The ominous rap of knuckles on the door reveals none other than The Grime Prevention Unit who enter barking " Spot Check!" in unison. Clipboard Man comes armed with triangle men (you know the kind I mean - big muscled shoulders, skinny waists), who immediately head for the sofa against the wall.

" I...I was going to move it this weekend and hoover under it...", you mutter weakly while trying to kick your abandoned shoes behind the TV stand before they see them.

A squeak escapes you that Mickey Mouse would have been proud of when their eyes turn towards the freezer. "It's...uh...err...there's too much food in there for me to defrost that just now!" you shriek, knowing full well that its main content is enough ice to sink the Titanic. You hope they don't ask what's in the obligatory mystery aluminum foil wrapped parcel that every freezer owner has.

Clipboard Man turns to you, his scowl deepening behind thick lenses as he sniffs the smoke tinged air.

"Any Febreze in the house?"

"Well, uh, it's on my shopping list and..."

"That's a no then."  A large red cross is checked against the Fresh as a daisy box.

"Any window cleaner? Though I doubt it." Triangle men laugh on cue while elbow deep down the back of the sofa. One of them retrieves with a flourish the vacuum attachment that's been MIA since three days after you bought the contraption.

"YES!! YES I DO!!!!...Oh no wait, there's not enough." With your moment of triumph ripped asunder by the measly few tablespoons of azure blue liquid lurking under the sink, you resort to babbling in fear.

"You know how it starts to run out and there's still some in the bottom of the bottle but the trigger gun thingy can't quite reach it so when you squeeze it all you get is foamy bubbles and a wheezing sound, I hate that I really do, why do they make them like that, you pay for all of it and can't use all of it and I think it's daylight robbery and..."

"SILENCE!!" He wipes a finger disdainfully along your window ledge, sending dust motes dancing merrily. "I've seen enough. Lock her up, boys."

Thankfully, grime isn't a crime. If it were, I'd be karate chopping those cobwebs more with the best of them. But for today, I'll just scribble and give thanks no one will ever inspect my culinary skills either. Maybe someday I'll share the crunchy eggs story.

Until next time, scribble when you can.