Domesticity

Domestic: Of or relating to the home; of or relating to the activities normally associated with the home, wherever they actually occur.

Domesticity: home life; devotion to or familiarity with home life; and, a domestic duty, matter, or condition.

In approximately five days our home will be invaded by family returning for the youngest son's graduation from college.  Our pregnant daughter will be flying in from Alabama to see her little brother graduate.  The youngest's main (and only squeeze) will be flying in from Utah.  The youngest will be moving back into the house.  Our quiet house will quickly be transformed into a rocking, rollicking, noisy sanctuary of family . . . and I am looking forward to it all.  Even as an introvert I can handle a few days of the noise my loved ones make.  What I am dreading is the five days leading up to the grand entrance of our loved ones.

I am about to be transformed into "Domesticity Man"!!!

In the next couple of days I am going to be dropping into the "cleaning" mode as the wife has given me a "honey do" list a mile long of things that I must do to prepare the house for our guests.  Despite my best arguments that returning children are not "guests"--they are our children and we should be saving the list and chores for them when they get here, I am being told the list will be completed come hell or high water or children coming home.  So, whether or not I like it, I am to become a virtual Mr. Clean.

The only thing I have that Mr. Clean doesn't have--though I don't really have a whole bunch of it--is hair.  The bald dude has no hair . . . but he has everything else.  He has good looks--I'm average looking.  He has muscles--there are rumors that I once had muscles about thirty years ago.  He has snazzy white clothes--I've got clothes.  And, he has the ability to clean and make any house sparkling clean--I have ability, maybe not cleaning ability, but I have ability.  I bought a bottle of that Mr. Clean stuff, opened it, and waited for him to appear like a genie out of a bottle and got nothing but a big puddle of liquid on the counter.  I think there is a little false advertising going on here . . . 

And, so, tomorrow morning I begin working on the "list"--and what a list it is.  I am to clean the blinds in the house--last count there are six setts of blinds in the house.  I say pull them up and let the sun shine in, but if I do that then I have to add cleaning the windows to the list . . . keep them down and not let anyone into the room until after it gets dark.  But, no, I will clean the blinds.  Clear out the closets of all the junk and stuff that has accumulated since we move to Montana--three and a half years worth of junk and stuff.  Now mind you this junk and stuff is ninety percent the wife's--closets are her hiding place for things she no longer wants.  I will probably pull the pick-up around back and have a pitching party--straight to the church for the next garage sale.  Then there is cleaning carpets--upstairs and downstairs.  Again, if I keep everybody's eyes up they'll never see the shape of the carpets.  Then there is dusting, painting furniture, sweeping, vacuuming, scrubbing the tub and toilet, creating two terrariums, rolling out a new decorative carpet in the living room, and finding new places to hide new junk and stuff.  My mind and body shudder at the work that must be done . . . and this does not include the "manly" outside work that needs to be done.  I'm tired of it just thinking about it!

 

When I told someone I know about this adventure that was before me, the individual suggested that I make the work fun.  Well, if work was fun it wouldn't be called work--it would be called fun.  But the person had a point as I remembered back to those days when we would clean the house I shared with several guys in college.  About once a month or when the dirt and garbage piled up too high we would clean the house.  Now most normal people would say that the amount of time they spend cleaning a house is measured in hours--not my college buddies and I.  Nope, cleaning house was measured in six packs!  Typically cleaning the house was a six pack job--per person!  Drinking beer while cleaning house made work fun.  So now I am thinking . . . cleaning house . . . beer . . . the perfect combination.  In fact, they have made things that make this working relationship work: the six pack belt!

 

Great idea!  Then I thought, I can rig up a cup holder on the handle of the vacuum cleaner to hold my beer.  I could get one of those hard hats with the double cup holders and plastic tubes.  Shoot, this domesticity stuff ain't going to be too tough after all.  With such wonderful cleaning tools at my disposal cleaning should be a cinch!  I figure, from gauging the length of the list, that tomorrow's chores should only take half a case to complete . . . probably over two days as I will probably need a nap after the first six pack . . . but it can be done!  I can handle being domesticated, but not with domesticated beer--micro brews all the way!

Well, it was nice to dream . . . I made the mistake of telling the wife my plans.  No words were exchanged . . . just the "look".  The "look" said everything loud and clear.  There will be no beer involved in the preparations and cleaning of the house before the big event.  Nope, not even root beer.  It will all be blood, sweat, and tears--mostly mine as I bust my rear end fulfilling the "honey do" list.  I can already feel and hear the gnashing of teeth and the lamenting of the mouth.  It won't be pretty.  Now I'm thinking this domesticity stuff sucks . . . sucks to high heaven.

There has to be a better way . . . I am thinking . . . dark sunglasses.  Yeah, dark sunglasses.  I'll buy everyone a pair of Oakley sunglasses as a "welcome home" gift.  Can't see anything indoors when you are wearing dark sunglasses.  I should have thought of that years ago.  Sure saves a lot of time.  But I am sure the wife will give me the "look".  Oh, the things we do for those we love.  Wish me luck!