Confessions of a Company Cleaner
By Chris Sherman
My single, care-free brother calls.
“Hey. What are you doing tonight?”
“When tonight? Dinner time or bedtime?”
“Before dinner.”
“Before dinner I’m making dinner.”
“Oh. Sounds like fun.”
“This is the real world David. I don’t have a five-star chef on retainer.”
“Right. Well, here’s the thing. I’ve met this really fabulous girl and I’d like to bring her over before we go to dinner so you can meet her.”
Now I’ve met more of his “fabulous” girls over the years than I care to remember and I must say I usually like two out of three of them more than I like him. This inevitably forces me to pull the woman into the kitchen, thrust cab fare into her hand and push her out the door, the way one would push a person out of the way of an oncoming truck. Another innocent life saved.
“And I really do like her, so no taking her into the kitchen. See you at six.”
I look around at my messy house and I have a quick, mini-fantasy. I wiggle my nose sending brooms, buckets, mops and sundry cleaning supplies flying out of cupboards and closets. I am fantastically “Bewitched.” The three children, for they are the only ones who can undo the spell, the only ones who can unclean something immediately after it has been cleaned, are mercifully duck taped to the kitchen chairs, where they remain writhing and whimpering until the door bell rings.
You see, (and here’s my confession,) I only clean for company. This leads me to the logical conclusion that if it weren’t for the occasional guest, the board of health would shut me down. My children would come home from school to find crime scene tape over the door and we would be forced to live on the streets until I could prove to the authorities that I can, in fact, keep the card board box allotted to me under the bridge clean and tidy. We’d all be scarred for life, especially the children, as we return to our home, vowing to try harder, do better and to put cleanliness right up there with Godliness. So, to avoid all this, as one would avoid cheating on one’s spouse or smoking crack, given the ramifications, I clean.
But only when company is imminent.
Well, come on. I mean, if I happen to see more than a fair amount of dust balls rolling by the television set, or wafting up from under the fridge, I do have the presence of mind to pick up the phone and invite someone over, thus giving me the impetus to clean. I try to maintain a certain level of cleanliness for health reasons, but what would be the purpose of cleaning if there’s no one around to admire my handiwork? It’s like, if you dust under the dining room server, and there’s no one coming over for dinner, is it still considered clean?
In Victorian times, and there is actual documentation of this by people who have a bit too much time on their hands, women would clean obsessively to ward of big, scary diseases like the bubonic plague or tuberculosis. And they had it much worse than modern women with our Swiffers and sprays. Soot covered everything due to coal burning stoves, gas lamps and fireplaces. They must have had guests for tea and crumpets three, four times a week, just to keep up. (I generalize women as cleaners because even the most politically correct would have to admit men don’t actually clean, they tidy up, which is definitely NOT the same thing. You TIDY UP for yourself, for your own peace of mind. You CLEAN for company.)
But, alas, not everyone feels this way about cleaning. In her book, Sacred Space, (Ballantine, 1996) Denise Linn states that cleaning the house should be a “spiritual” experience. (Very few people get spiritual just for company, unless you’re having the local pastor over.) She suggests that when you clean you should imagine you are ridding your home of negative energy. She proposes cleaning re-establishes harmony in the home. I think it’s a crock, like maybe she’s working for Johnson Wax, but it’s five o’clock, so I try a few suggestions given in her book.
After giving the corner under the air conditioner a good cleaning, and assuring myself no one is around to hear, I clap loudly to break up any “stagnation” that may be lurking. After vacuuming, I throw salt around the room and put little piles of it in the corners (which seems to me to be a cross purposes with the vacuuming) in order to purify and bring grounding elements into my home. I “bless” a bowl of spring water, (which I think is way out of my realm of my power, but I do it anyway) and sprinkle it around the room. Finally, I open the window and with the most awkward of hand gestures, I “invite” the air in. I “ask” the air, (and I’m feeling a bit weird about this) to circulate through my home to cleanse it and bring new energies.
It’s five to six and the house is clean, blessed and free of any demonic dust. I am now ready to clean a loony bin near you.
Actually, I’m grateful to by brother for inviting himself over, for now the house looks and smells wonderful. I open a bottle of wine, put out a few peanuts and tuck a twenty in my back pocket for the poor girl’s cab fare.
Oh! There’s the door bell. Gotta untie the kids.
-30-
Friday, February 16, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Not Wanting Call Waiting
A VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By Chris Sherman
Not Wanting Call Waiting
People actually come up to me on the street and ask me to complain in writing about call-waiting, and so, due to popular demand, call-waiting is going to have to bend over for a well-deserved spanking. If you have call-waiting, you may be offended, but I think it’s only fair to know what people are saying about you behind your back.
People who don’t have call-waiting, and even some who do, hate to be engaged in a call-waiting conversation. You’re on the phone with a dear friend, pouring out your heart and soul, laying bare your innermost thoughts and feelings, when suddenly you get a sense that your voice is being muted. Your friend is getting “beeped”. He apologizes with all the gusto of a prisoner facing fifty years to life for “accidentally” bludgeoning his wife to death with a barbecue utensil. You are asked with false annoyance if you wouldn’t mind “holding on”. You are immediately taken aback. You feel cut off and frustrated. Conversation-interuptus. “No... sure, go ahead,” you say, trying to sound like a team player.
Now all your insecurities come into play. Who will your friend choose to talk with? Will he stick with you or dump you for the more charming and charismatic second caller? Has he been bored with your conversation all along, and relieved at the interruption? It’s like he’s saying, “Hold on, this call might be better than your call.”
All this goes through your mind in the five seconds it takes for him to get back to you, and aren’t you secretly relieved when he does?
“Not important. It was just Buster. I can call him later .” Now your wondering if he says the same thing when you are the one interrupting a call.
It would be like you’re sitting on the sofa having a very heated conversation with your soon-to-be-ex-wife about how you are going to divide your mutual assets when in charges your soon-to-be-ex- mother-in-law, whom you have affectionately named “The Battleship Interference”. She sits right down between the two of you and refuses to budge until she is acknowledged. Your spouse, favoring her mother over a “dirty rotten scoundrel” like you, (her words, not mine), asks that you stop talking and leave the room, so that she can give all her attention to her mother. You’d feel mighty frustrated and angry wouldn’t you?
I can already hear multitudes of parents screaming out there, “But what if my child needs to reach me in an emergency and I am on the phone with my long-winded Aunt Sadie?” To them I scream right back, “Call waiting should only be permitted with caller-ID!” If you are on the phone counseling a grieving friend and you get a “beep”, you can check your handy little caller ID screen. Is it daughter Jenny calling from the side of the road in a hurricane with a flat tire, or is it that darn Aunt Sadie again? Oh, it’s Aunt Sadie. You’ll call her later, after your friend has had a good cry.
I think call-waiting is rude. It gives one a false sense of importance. Let’s face it, if you were so important, you’d have your own secretary to be rude to people for you. (My dear friend, a long-time subscriber to call-waiting, always reminds me that although I don’t have call waiting, I must ask her a million times to “hold on” while I yell at the kids. Point well taken.)
Are pro-call-waiters so afraid they are going to miss something, like Rich Aunt Sadie is making out the will and the line is busy? Are they in such demand that everyone must have access to them at every moment? And why would anyone want to be so available?
So, there it is. A public complaint voiced against call-waiting. If I have offended anyone, I’m sorry. At the sound of the beep, feel free to switch to a different column.
-30-
By Chris Sherman
Not Wanting Call Waiting
People actually come up to me on the street and ask me to complain in writing about call-waiting, and so, due to popular demand, call-waiting is going to have to bend over for a well-deserved spanking. If you have call-waiting, you may be offended, but I think it’s only fair to know what people are saying about you behind your back.
People who don’t have call-waiting, and even some who do, hate to be engaged in a call-waiting conversation. You’re on the phone with a dear friend, pouring out your heart and soul, laying bare your innermost thoughts and feelings, when suddenly you get a sense that your voice is being muted. Your friend is getting “beeped”. He apologizes with all the gusto of a prisoner facing fifty years to life for “accidentally” bludgeoning his wife to death with a barbecue utensil. You are asked with false annoyance if you wouldn’t mind “holding on”. You are immediately taken aback. You feel cut off and frustrated. Conversation-interuptus. “No... sure, go ahead,” you say, trying to sound like a team player.
Now all your insecurities come into play. Who will your friend choose to talk with? Will he stick with you or dump you for the more charming and charismatic second caller? Has he been bored with your conversation all along, and relieved at the interruption? It’s like he’s saying, “Hold on, this call might be better than your call.”
All this goes through your mind in the five seconds it takes for him to get back to you, and aren’t you secretly relieved when he does?
“Not important. It was just Buster. I can call him later .” Now your wondering if he says the same thing when you are the one interrupting a call.
It would be like you’re sitting on the sofa having a very heated conversation with your soon-to-be-ex-wife about how you are going to divide your mutual assets when in charges your soon-to-be-ex- mother-in-law, whom you have affectionately named “The Battleship Interference”. She sits right down between the two of you and refuses to budge until she is acknowledged. Your spouse, favoring her mother over a “dirty rotten scoundrel” like you, (her words, not mine), asks that you stop talking and leave the room, so that she can give all her attention to her mother. You’d feel mighty frustrated and angry wouldn’t you?
I can already hear multitudes of parents screaming out there, “But what if my child needs to reach me in an emergency and I am on the phone with my long-winded Aunt Sadie?” To them I scream right back, “Call waiting should only be permitted with caller-ID!” If you are on the phone counseling a grieving friend and you get a “beep”, you can check your handy little caller ID screen. Is it daughter Jenny calling from the side of the road in a hurricane with a flat tire, or is it that darn Aunt Sadie again? Oh, it’s Aunt Sadie. You’ll call her later, after your friend has had a good cry.
I think call-waiting is rude. It gives one a false sense of importance. Let’s face it, if you were so important, you’d have your own secretary to be rude to people for you. (My dear friend, a long-time subscriber to call-waiting, always reminds me that although I don’t have call waiting, I must ask her a million times to “hold on” while I yell at the kids. Point well taken.)
Are pro-call-waiters so afraid they are going to miss something, like Rich Aunt Sadie is making out the will and the line is busy? Are they in such demand that everyone must have access to them at every moment? And why would anyone want to be so available?
So, there it is. A public complaint voiced against call-waiting. If I have offended anyone, I’m sorry. At the sound of the beep, feel free to switch to a different column.
-30-
Monday, February 5, 2007
Ladie's Room or Bust
A VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By Chris Sherman
Ladie’s Room or Bust
True story. Hubby and I took a ride to visit friends way out in Western Mass. Before I left the house, I ate a quarter of a whole seedless watermelon, drank a cup of tea, and on the way out of town we drove through for an iced coffee. (Yes, I’m dieting again.)
We were cruising along on 495, chatting and solving all our parental problems, when it hits me. I need a ladies room and I need one now!
Hubby was on a roll, reciting a monologue about how the kids need to do more for themselves and how I’m handicapping them for life. He was about to expound upon the twelfth reason why they should be able to cook their own nutritional meals, when I let out a deep, Lamaze like breath.
“Is something the matter?” he asks, coming in for a verbal landing.
“I need to find a restroom. Fast.”
“Why do you always wait until the last minute to tell me?”
“It just snuck up on me,” I lied.
“But where can I get off? There are no rest stops.”
“Get off anywhere. That group of prickly bushes look inviting.”
“No. I will not sit on the side of the road while you pee in the bushes.”
“No kidding. Your gonna be right beside me handing me the Kleenex.”
“I’ll get off at the next exit. There’s bound to be a store or gas station.”
By now I’m squirming and panting and writhing and whimpering.
Finally the blessed green of an exit sign. Some town we never heard of. He veers off and comes to a “T” intersection.
“Which way?”
“I don’t care. Just go!”
He chooses “right”.
Well, “right” was wrong. We are now headed down the bumpiest road never paved. Every jolt is a stab to the bladder. I’m starting to question whether we are going to remain married after I pee my pants and ruin his leather seat. I envision him chasing me with a sharp object when he realizes we have to buy a new car. I picture him in jail.
Mercifully, we hit pavement again and lo and behold, there was a convenience store. He starts, “They don’t look like they have a bathroom.”
“Of course they have a bathroom. The employees have to “go” don’t they?”
“Yeah. But they won’t let you use it.”
“Nobody is that cruel. Pull over.”
I fly out of the car only to realize that I can’t walk. One false move and the dam would give-way. I limp painfully into the store, trying to breath normally. There had to be a thousand people in there, all at the cash register. The cashier was too busy to notice me limp in. I hated her. I frantically gave a visual scan of the place to see if another employee might be lurking about and where a bathroom might be.
There! Land-ho! A woman sitting on the floor pricing cans of baked beans. Keeping my legs glued together, I sidle over, Quasi Motto style. “Please!” I cry, “can I use your bathroom?”
Now, I know she sees me all doubled over, and I know she sees the pained look on my face and the sweat on my forehead, yet she turns to me and says as if she doesn’t know that I know that she knows, “Sorry. No public restrooms.”
By now I’m desperate. I fling my arms out in front of me. “Please! I can’t hold it! I won’t look around. I won’t touch anything. I won’t tell a soul what I see in there. Please!” She looked skeptical, so I threw in, “I’ll buy something!”
“Well, OK. Follow me.”
I limped and followed. I told her how she was going to go to heaven for this. I told her I would never forget her for this. I think I told her I loved her.
And I did. I loved everyone by the time I got out of that store. I was in a complete state of euphoria. Oh, and I kept my promise. I bought something. A 32 oz. bottle of water.
-00-
By Chris Sherman
Ladie’s Room or Bust
True story. Hubby and I took a ride to visit friends way out in Western Mass. Before I left the house, I ate a quarter of a whole seedless watermelon, drank a cup of tea, and on the way out of town we drove through for an iced coffee. (Yes, I’m dieting again.)
We were cruising along on 495, chatting and solving all our parental problems, when it hits me. I need a ladies room and I need one now!
Hubby was on a roll, reciting a monologue about how the kids need to do more for themselves and how I’m handicapping them for life. He was about to expound upon the twelfth reason why they should be able to cook their own nutritional meals, when I let out a deep, Lamaze like breath.
“Is something the matter?” he asks, coming in for a verbal landing.
“I need to find a restroom. Fast.”
“Why do you always wait until the last minute to tell me?”
“It just snuck up on me,” I lied.
“But where can I get off? There are no rest stops.”
“Get off anywhere. That group of prickly bushes look inviting.”
“No. I will not sit on the side of the road while you pee in the bushes.”
“No kidding. Your gonna be right beside me handing me the Kleenex.”
“I’ll get off at the next exit. There’s bound to be a store or gas station.”
By now I’m squirming and panting and writhing and whimpering.
Finally the blessed green of an exit sign. Some town we never heard of. He veers off and comes to a “T” intersection.
“Which way?”
“I don’t care. Just go!”
He chooses “right”.
Well, “right” was wrong. We are now headed down the bumpiest road never paved. Every jolt is a stab to the bladder. I’m starting to question whether we are going to remain married after I pee my pants and ruin his leather seat. I envision him chasing me with a sharp object when he realizes we have to buy a new car. I picture him in jail.
Mercifully, we hit pavement again and lo and behold, there was a convenience store. He starts, “They don’t look like they have a bathroom.”
“Of course they have a bathroom. The employees have to “go” don’t they?”
“Yeah. But they won’t let you use it.”
“Nobody is that cruel. Pull over.”
I fly out of the car only to realize that I can’t walk. One false move and the dam would give-way. I limp painfully into the store, trying to breath normally. There had to be a thousand people in there, all at the cash register. The cashier was too busy to notice me limp in. I hated her. I frantically gave a visual scan of the place to see if another employee might be lurking about and where a bathroom might be.
There! Land-ho! A woman sitting on the floor pricing cans of baked beans. Keeping my legs glued together, I sidle over, Quasi Motto style. “Please!” I cry, “can I use your bathroom?”
Now, I know she sees me all doubled over, and I know she sees the pained look on my face and the sweat on my forehead, yet she turns to me and says as if she doesn’t know that I know that she knows, “Sorry. No public restrooms.”
By now I’m desperate. I fling my arms out in front of me. “Please! I can’t hold it! I won’t look around. I won’t touch anything. I won’t tell a soul what I see in there. Please!” She looked skeptical, so I threw in, “I’ll buy something!”
“Well, OK. Follow me.”
I limped and followed. I told her how she was going to go to heaven for this. I told her I would never forget her for this. I think I told her I loved her.
And I did. I loved everyone by the time I got out of that store. I was in a complete state of euphoria. Oh, and I kept my promise. I bought something. A 32 oz. bottle of water.
-00-
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