Doin’ the cleanin’
Few of us enjoy doing housework. No matter how necessary we tell ourselves it is, we’d all rather be doing something more fun or interesting.
Some of us aren’t very good at it. I don’t mean we’re not good at making ourselves do it, but that we don’t seem to be very efficient at it. For example, in the time it takes me to unload and reload a dishwasher, my husband can clean the stove, clean the table, hand wash most of the dirty dishes, and mop the floor. It’s like he has a superpower. He just moves so quickly.
On the other hand, afterward, neither of us can find half the dishes he put away.
When Michael first moved in with me, doing his laundry was an adventure. No matter how carefully I checked all the pockets of all his pants and shirts, there would always be little surprises in the dryer.
What amazed me most was how many of those pockets contained random wads of money. To be fair, he was working as a bartender back then, and every night came home with his share from the tip jar in cash. But he wouldn’t just stuff it in one pocket and go, no, he seemed to distribute it between every pocket on his body that night… and then when he got home at whatever ungodly hour it was, he’d toss the clothes in the hamper and collapse into bed.
Apparently I teased him enough about it that he began making an effort to pull stuff out of his pockets. But he didn’t do it when he took the clothes off. The next day, while dressing for work, he would fish the previous day’s pants from the hamper, and transfer stuff to the new day’s pants. Not all of it, mind you. And he didn’t consolidate, he would distribute again.
One time I asked him if he was doing it that way because he figured if someone picked his pocket, he’d still have money in the other pockets? He said the idea hadn’t really occurred to him.
Eventually, I think he got tired of me accidentally washing his pens and receipts and such, because he got better at transferring stuff from the pockets. And now that he doesn’t work as a bartender, most of wads of bills have been replaced by handfuls of thumb drives and memory cards.
The only reason my pockets aren’t like his is because I tend to carry all the things I may need in a backpack. The pockets of my backpack are a crazy jumble of items, some that I use every day, others that only are around just in case.
The storage spaces in our car are turbo charged versions of his pockets or my backpack. For instance, it turned out that we had three different sets of socket wrenches squirreled away in the old car. One set I had owned since my teens, another that Ray had kept in his car back when I first started dating him (which I had subsequently carried in each car I owned after Ray’s death), and a third set, in a much better case, that Michael and I had picked up some years ago intending to replace the other two.
I can’t remember the last time I actually needed a socket wrench to work on anything.
There were so many other little things like that. We did a much more careful review of all the items from the old car. Only things that would fit in the tool compartments under the floor mat are being kept.
Now if only the mental detritus that accumulates in one’s head could be so easily cleaned out…