Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Wash The Water

148 Wash The Water

If there were a way to wash the water, the Queen of Clean would find it. Water, after all, comes out of the ground and is therefore dirty. If it’s dirty, it has to be cleaned. Thoroughly. Often.

Alas, all one can do is add chemicals (yech!) or run the stuff through filters (they, too, need cleaning.) And that’s not nearly enough.

She’s a one-woman autoclave, and the house sparkles.

We had a deal when we moved here. We’ll do a little every day, not try to clean every room every day. That went out the window on Day Two.

You can use a full can of Pledge in two weeks if you work at it. Around here, that’s hardly the heavy lifting. Around here that happened before there was a stick of wood furniture in the place.

We’ve already worn out the stainless steel sink in the kitchen. (It’s actually two sinks and, says the Queen of Clean, it should have two sets of faucets. But up in the bathroom, where there ARE two sinks with two sets of faucets, “that’s one too many.”)

The washer and dryer downstairs? They cower when they hear the basement door open. If they could run and hide under something, they would. They want to unionize. Say they’re overworked. You say you didn’t know appliances could talk? They can. They do.

Just the other day, the stove was overheard saying “cook all you want, but PLEASE stop with the steel wool when there’s nothing there to scrape off.”

We have an outdoor deck that gets a good breeze most days. But not enough to get rid of dust no one can see. A broom resides out there permanently. We’re going to get it a coat for the winter.

The walkway was put in poorly and that resulted in a nice multicolored Alexander Calder-like pattern. But the builder covered it over in a nice shiny white after five months of nagging.

Back in Manhattan, you couldn’t leave a single crumb in sight, else the roaches would march. There are no roaches here. But heaven forbid the crumb radar sounds a warning.

Then there’s the dining room table. It’s a beautiful, almost-hand-made light cherry thing with matching chairs. Very expensive. Impossible to hurt. Sturdy.

And it’s a sore point. It’s TOO nice. Requires too many steps to clean.

Last night, we signed a post-nup. It included a promise that if either of us is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, this hard-to-maintain table and all other items of clutter would be disposed of before the full thrall of the disease.

A legal contract, witnesses and all.

And it will be broken. Count on it.

In the meantime, if anyone knows how to wash water, please let the rest of us in on the secret.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR

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