Cleanliness is Next to Dogliness

I may be, quite honestly, the only lesbian in the world who waxes her kitchen counters, appliances, and believes clean floors are a spiritual experience.  As a group, we’re not exactly known for our domestic proclivities.  My wife says I’m one of those rare lesbians who should have been born a gay man.  I have the best of both worlds: impulse to tastefully decorate, clean, arrange groupings, AND I also rewired the house, laid  the tile, and put in the laminate flooring.  I love power saws.  Typical dyke.  Wait: I love power saws, makeup, and Jimmy Choo’s: atypical dyke

I do hate cooking.  So can I please stay in the club?  Pretty please?

If all that cleaning happened by itself while I sat reading a good book, I would spontaneously ascend.  When it doesn’t, I sigh, count it as a necessary spiritual devotion, and plug in the holy of holies: The Vacuum Cleaner.

Which is why, when I discovered The Christmas Present had chewed alllll the way through the vacuum cleaner cord, a tunnel opened up with a bright light at the end, and a eerily loving voice said “come…walk into the light”.

One does not, in this economy, go out and replace a $400 vacuum with another $400 vacuum.

While one researches inexpensive vacuums, one buys a broom.  I had to figure it out on my own.  Not even a lousy owner’s manual.  Barn brooms, piece of cake: sweep everything out the doors.  House brooms: you play tag with the dirt.  Sweep it into a tidy little pile,  put down the dust pan, and watch it hee-hee-hee into new hiding places.    One must again begin at the beginning.  I get the Zen of house sweeping.   It’s very Chop-Wood, Carry-Water.

Personally I prefer Up-Thermostat, Open-Faucet.

I don’t like changing the tools with which I do my spiritual practice.  When our church switched out all the old 1921 prayer books, praying with the shiny new ones just wasn’t the same.

The simple doggie act of gnawing became an intense religious experience.  Intensely bad, but intense.  I behaved.  Only the evidence remained, so I didn’t yell, scold, or even glare.

I cried.

Then I lectured Christmas on the difference between expensive cords and inexpensive cords.  If I had had a white board, there would have been diagrams.  He listened politely, even though he didn’t understand a word.

There is something profound about being listened to politely.

I wondered if I had ever listened to anyone with the same earnest, willing politeness Christmas was patiently giving me.

Now that’s the $400 question.

Copyright © 2009. The Literary Horse. All rights reserved.
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