I hate housework with a passion. I think I got that from my grandmother who always said she could find something, anything better to do than clean up after others. Every once in a while she would slap the furniture with a damp cloth and fierce energy … her cat-lick-and-a-promise (to do better next time) cleaning tactics.


So I ask you, what is it about a freshly cleaned room that is a magnate for man-dirt? This is a petty post at best. I am fully aware that I’m being petty. I am pissed off.

This past weekend the guys were north at the construction zone that is our future home.  I had a cold and took a pass on making the trip.  After they cleared out, I tackled the laundry.  The heat from the dryer and the aroma of freshly washed clothing always, always makes me feel better.  In fact, I felt so much better by yesterday that before I went out for lunch with a pal, I thoroughly cleaned the laundry room – walls, ceiling, floors, light fixtures, counters, appliances – and it was no cat lick, either.

The guys returned while I was delving into my tuna melt at the pub.  They must have panicked when they saw the gleaming laundry room and moved swiftly to correct the anomaly with a mound of sodden work clothes (and rags, RAGS!) and muddy boots.

I tossed the rags (RAGS!) and boots deep into the bowels of the garage with a satisfying ricochet or two off the ceiling, jammed the work clothes into the washer, then smacked the crap out of everything in that room with a damp cloth.

Love you, Grandma.