Nothing besets a woman like work day Mondays, desk clutter, dirty laundry, an empty bottle of Bailey’s, and knowing all those years of Grandma’s dumplings have caught up with me. No more invitations for dinners anywhere unless they are serving Bailey’s, Edamame for dessert, and giving away clean towels.
I’m not refreshed enough on Mondays to do much. Even the Mama’s & the Papa’s declared that you can’t trust that day. I work from home. So it’s convenient to grab a rag watch it gather dust as well. My confidence fluctuates when I think that maybe next Monday I just might scrub something, and have The Fonz elected as an incumbent state leader. Unlikely, but possible. Come to think of it I’m not wild about Tuesdays, I get those mid week blues most Wednesdays, and Thursdays could be troublesome if there are people around to play with. Most of my true happiness arrives on weekends, because I’m never home to clean.
I’m sure that half the people occupying insane asylums cleaned with Clorox. It’s apparent where I got my sanitation status. My mother thoroughly cleaned and carried around a bottle of ammonia in her purse. Her attention to detail kept me cooped up and scrubbing for most of my remaining years as a stigmatized sniveling servant. Unlike her mother who kept bookin’ it to Bingo. God did not intend to keep me down on all fours or He would have created floor boards compiled of double chocolate ginger Biscotti’s.
With such declining enthusiasm, I finally decided to devote Mondays to project finishing, organizing, and scrubbing. I needed to do something substantial rather than sift through the ramshackled ruins of my living space. I still had a log coffee table with a rotting top sitting on my patio that I plucked from someone’s trash when I was bouncing around my neighborhood. What is one man’s trash is usually soon to be my treasure. I had to ask another jogger if she would help me lift it into my car, but I had to wait for that person to show up. Three hours after counting every streetside pebble, a gal appeared looking like she was the minor league player of dwarfism. Pushing ninety pounds if that, and a baby buggy. I assumed she was intravenously fed Slim Fast while delivering.
I did wonder what other women do on Mondays. I barely survived my last painful Monday after an iron fell on my foot. So I worried about inflicting possible paralysis to every thoracic vertebrae in this woman’s neck if she helped me. Turned out that little Mrs. new mother had the muscles of Mark Wahlberg. I was hoping to summon her services again sometime. I needed my armoire lifted to clean behind it. I’d give her an old pair of panties for dusting, provided I didn’t need to be wearing them. But she sped off before I could pin her down to a decade.
Forget the fact that there’s enough sugary content covering my desk to crystallize Croatia. And inside my desk are a few dozen dust bunnies camouflaging as paper clips. I really want to become a committed cleaning contributor and another one that fights the dust. But considering all the dirt accumulation on Madame Bovary, a book I never cracked open, I’m pretty sure it was designed to be read. Not gather gunk. But those pages were never going to make it to my memory. I put it in the yard sale pile with War & Peace, and Jehovah’s Watchtower pamphlets. I then transferred all my staples to covered containers dropping a few. I found myself with a magnifying glass searching for those that fell into the carpeting. Meanwhile a girlfriend called and gave me the bright idea to look for the staples barefoot. Sorely, I found two tacks instead. Then it dawned on me. I’ll invite an OCD group for dinner. Somebody’s bound to start combing through my carpet fibers.
I needed something from someone who had a better grasp of reality than I had. But watching Ferris Bueller didn’t help. My motivation looked like a job for Starbucks and Mr. Clean. Except I was out of muscular men, and the famous coffee maker doesn’t deliver. Thanks to my knowledge of affirmative action, I grabbed some tea, then baking soda. Before long it was late afternoon and I needed to mail a package. I stood in line trying to bring clarity to those who were clearly worried about the dried powdery substance on my fingers. One lady relayed the post office policy on temperamental people. I gave my long drawn out situation starting with the adopted table, the shortage of cleaning supplies, and all the discomfitures of Mondays. She displayed a dull ray of smart-alecky sunshine when implying that I inhaled too many chemicals as a child. And I used to be such a people person.
Once I returned to gazing at my clutter, I found a dust rag behind my monitor. Obviously something came up and I never finished cleaning that day either. It’s not like I’m going to perform surgery here. Although I do love those thirty seconds when my desk is spotless. I asked myself what harm can really come from dust mite excretion that can be combated with Claritin. I’m hardly going to croak from crud. Although I could go at anytime. They expedite caskets from Costco if you order by 11.
Supposedly happiness is 30% activities, 50% genetics, and 10% circumstances. I say happiness is not having my molecular structure partnering with any activity such as scouring. It’s Monday again. That unfinished table is still staring at me. And I would have dusted last night had I not been using my hands to operate the television remote control. The landlord is scheduled to come over to fix the faucet. If I’m not here, I’ll just write a message in the dust which valve needs replacing.
(Posts can be seen in the weekend editions of The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)