Fall

I was a little late this year in doing the fall cleaning thing, about 2 years late now that I think about it.

I have been battling dust dinosaurs under the refrigerator and cobwebs that held clues to the origin of previously unknown forms of insect life. I collected enough cat/dog hair to knit a nice area rug. I found toys that were lost before we even moved into this house.

Let’s not even think about the stuff that occurs in the microwave. If it were not for the constant radiation, life would be growing there that would be hearty enough to exist unassisted in space.

The whole house became covered in a fine protective layer of dust, and it’s now my job to remove it.

We used to have a cleaning lady, she was great, but offers of more money in distant towns were more attractive than vacuuming dog hair from my carpets and mopping cat gack from my floors. I really can’t blame her. Frankly, if I could find someone that was willing to come out here and clean, I would happily watch him or her and offer bad advice. I can think of many things that I would rather do than clean house. Napping, for instance. Slamming my hand in the door for another.

I thought about opening all the doors and windows and simply walking through the place with a leaf blower, but it has been too damn cold. The cats would probably escape anyway. That would get me in hot water with Mrs. Troll.

That would not help with the toilets. It’s amazing how nasty a toilet can become. That environment is so bad that even the dogs won’t go in there. That is quite a statement from an animal that licks its own ass and likes the taste.

I am convinced that the teens in the house simply cannot see filth. They could walk by a steaming pile of dogshit and not notice. One of the teen rooms has not been cleaned in months and I am NOT going to risk my life until I absolutely have to. Like when he moves out and I can get a large dumpster and environment suits.

At that point I will just get some of that foam they use for Anthrax contamination and spray it around the room. Twice.

I decided to let him live in his own filth. This was probably a bad idea. His filth will soon invade the other parts of the house, and we will all come down with some strange disease that only occurs naturally in the anus of wild ducks.

His room is so bad that I make him wipe his feet before he can leave it.

Suggestions of him considering the possibility of cleaning his room fall on deaf ears. When I finally force the issue, he will usually just move the pile of shoes from one side of the room to the other, (He has more shoes than most women) put the dirty cloths in the hamper, and push a broom listlessly around the floor, and then plunk his ass in front of the computer to tap to his friends, considering the job done.

Meanwhile the dust rhinos are planning an escape. I can hear them. They have developed a civilization under his bed and are planning the invasion of his bathroom. I wish them luck.

I don’t mean to turn this into a rant about the boys. They are actually really good kids. It’s just that like all teens, they are slobs and would rather do anything than keep their rooms clean. They are at the age where they think they are immortal.

Unfortunately I am not. I have faced my own mortality, and it seems to lay in the direction of that room.

I have battled the carbon life form that took over the oven, removed accumulated grease monsters from windows, changed the encrusted filters in the heaters, and waxed the inside of the dishwasher.

Can I take that nap now?