Category Archives: Housekeeping
My husband never learned to put like things together or anything in the same place twice. In his preschool years, a shape-sorter toy never appeared under his family’s Christmas tree. You know, the bucket with the star-shaped, round, and triangular holes in the lid? Most toddlers are adept at dropping the appropriate hunk of plastic through the correct opening. Not Bacon. In fact, matching of any kind isn’t his forte.
Before he leaves the house everyday, my girls give him a make-over. Cherry in particular’s been know to say. “No. Just. No.” To which he replies, “What?” And Coco answers, “Change your shirt.”
That’s easy enough to handle compared to what happens when he unloads the dishwasher. No kitchen tool is ever returned to its original location. In Bacon’s world, a wire whisk is a refugee, camping out in a nebulous borderland, never to return to its true home.
When Bacon reads this, I can predict his exact response. He’ll say what he always says, “If it bothers you so much that I can’t remember where things go, I just won’t put the dishes away.” So before I go on, let me reassure him, “It won’t work. Pleading ignorance is no excuse.”
We have one utensil drawer divided with IKEA drawer dividers. The immersion blender fits on the left. Corkscrew and wine stopper in a slot. Can opener and apple corer in a slot. Ice cream scoop and small spatula in a slot. At any time, I can open the drawer and reach for exactly the tool I need without a glance. Unless . . .
Despite this innate flaw in his character, we’ve survived twenty plus years of marriage. I suppose things could be worse.
Ah the sweet smell of
ammonia success! The Taylor Swift marathon proved too much for the raccoon. Our neighborhood pet pest removed himself from the chimney. I’m moving on with the fireplace project without cage, capture, or release.
I bought paint for the inside brick. Scratch that. Today, I bought paint twice for the inside brick. The first time, Bacon convinced me that high heat spray paint would be quick and painless. I knew better. After we got home with the rattle can, I took a look at the proscenium. That’s a college word (borrowed from the theatre) for picture frame.
“How the heck am I going to keep paint off of the brick?”
“You can mask it with something.”
“I don’t know. Paper. Tape.”
I dragged him out to the front porch, where two years ago I spray painted wrought iron columns.
“See that?” I pointed to a black gash on the concrete. “Two years ago, I covered the porch with tape and paper. You complained about it that day. The mark is still there. Why do I let you bully me into buying the cheapest thing?”
“I did not bully you.”
At this point, Bacon did something miraculous. He quit arguing and left home to run an errand. I took the rattle can back to Home Depot and exchanged it for a quart of brush-on High Heat Rustoleum.
Bacon came home with flowers. Happy Valentine’s Day!
They also hate strong odors. The first site suggested rags soaked in dog urine. I looked at Jasmine curled into a ball of fluff on our sofa. She is completely housebroken. Asking her to urinate on demand would be an insult to her dignity. I asked Cherry what she thought.
“Gross, Mom. That’s disgusting.” She retreated to her bedroom.
The next site suggested a bowl of ammonia in the base of the fireplace. Bacon and I made a trip to the supermarket. We bought the last bottle of lemon scented store brand ammonia.
Which brought me to Taylor Swift. All of the websites said to put a radio in the fireplace and turn it up loud. One suggested tuning the station to talk radio. I’m a Democrat living in Texas with my multiracial family. Talk radio sends me into a homicidal rage. If I had to listen to talk radio for any length of time, next season’s Criminal Minds would feature this ripped from the headlines story:
Middle Class Swim Mom Morphs Into Serial Killer. The Trigger: Rush Limbaugh.
I don’t want to get rid of the raccoon THAT badly. Besides, the only radio we own is in the minivan. Parking the Grand Caravan in the family room isn’t an option.
I improvised with Coco’s iPod.
“But mom, what if the raccoon comes down the chimney and takes my iPod?”
“That’s not going to happen. He’s scared of loud noises.”
“What’s wrong with him? Raccoons don’t like pop music?”
Three hours later, we’d listened to Taylor Swift’s entire repertoire. “Why you gotta be so mean on your white horse on the best day ever!” Olympic speed skating played in the background.
Cherry peeked out of her room. “Mom, what is that?”
“In that blue bowl. The yellow stuff?” Her lips curled and nose scrunched into a horizontal line. “Oh no, you didn’t?”
“Make Jasmine pee in a cup?” She ran back into her room before I could explain lemon scented ammonia.
Bacon was still stung over the price tag of this home repair.
“You know, that lamp looks good set up in the fireplace. Maybe we could skip the gas log and—”
I fetched my trusty smartphone and printed the photo of a gas log fired up in the showroom hearth. I taped the print on the glass door in front of the lamp.
Cherry walked through the room on her sixteenth trip to the refrigerator.
“OMG. A photo of fire? That’s geekier than those people who livestream a fireplace on their televisions.” She doubles over in laughter at her ridiculous parents.
The iPod’s battery died five hours later. We kept the light and the
dog pee ammonia going all night. I don’t know whether or not the raccoon hearts Taylor Swift. It’s icy again and too dangerous to get up on the roof, but I’m in this to the end. This morning I hooked up my iPod. Vintage Paul Simon and Creedence Clearwater Revival.