*from the very disorganized archives*
Across America, millions of homes will see what I'm told is a normal ritual of weekly, even daily routine: housekeeping.
I suspect that this is an unsubstantiated rumor, and one that this bachelor finds to be amusingly futile.
Not that I'm a total slob, mind you. I just wouldn't compare favorably to Martha Stewart. I rate somewhere between The Odd Couple's Oscar Madison, and a wall-etching cave dweller.
Which I guess makes me a slob to some of you.
Now, I'll grant that there are a few items of housekeeping that tend to make some degree of sense to me. And I'll get around to adopting them as something of a habit, one of these days. But by and large, I only resort to limited efforts in the department of housekeeping when it's a matter of sitting on something that I don't want to squish in or slide off of, someone coming to visit and I have a least a week's warning, and/or self-defense.
Examples of housekeeping that I don't see the need for? Let's start with windows. Except on my computer, I don't do 'em. I reckon that if stained glass is okay for a church, then by gawd it's okay for me. I don't buy this 'separation of church and state' crap, since I see churches all over my state, and the ACLU ain't run 'em out yet.
Next, dusting. What a totally wasted exercise in futility. Some folks, or so the rumor goes, dust daily. Why? Like liberal illogic, taxes, Girl Scout cookies and another episode of American Idol, dust always comes back. Which is great as it regards Girl Scout cookies, but not the rest.
Why disturb dust? Dust is primal. Dust is eternal. And dust outnumbers us on the factor of 100 terra-giga-gazillions to 1. You start pissing off dust with such numeric superiority as that, and it might decide to overwhelm the senses, faster than a Rosie O'Donnell circus tent bikini calendar.
And that is NOT something to be taken lightly.
Though, I have been known to risk the wrath of a very primal substance, when my pet rock Seymour thinks that the newscaster on TV is a creature from The Outer Limits, and a quick swipe with a damp rag returns the infobabe to visibly human form. Seymour freaks out easily.
Kitchen cleaning? You already know of my culinary barbarianism that takes place therein. I reckon a quick fire-hosing once in a while, and I am embolden to take another swipe at my speed dialer for pizza delivery. Once in a while I am forced to have to remove leftovers dating to the previous century from my 'frig; Seymour is convinced they are morphing within strained Tupperware, into things that Stephen King writes about. When you come home from work, and your pet rock is cowering in the corner, holding your golf putter and gesturing fearfully at the 'frig, you best pay some degree of attention to it. I usually throw another 12 pack of beer into the 'frig, chain it closed, and wait 'til 'IT' is drunk enough to bag up and throw away.
And the bathroom...just give me a Lysol grenade every so often, and I reckon the place is as useable as an outhouse in rural Darfur.
I think you get the point that I am not big on housekeeping.
Still, even a life-long bachelor like moi has moments of delusion, thinking he'll meet someone who'll bring his status as a bachelor to an end. Then again, I keep waiting for AlGore to say something intelligent.
But in the event that the former does occur before the advent of the Apocalypse, I put together a handy 11 point guideline for bachelor pad maintenance, and it's one I've occasionally fallen back on ('cuz I mistook an unstable pile for the chair):
1. If it crawls, give it something to put away (or at least out of the way) and point it in the right direction. Hope that it has a sense of one (direction).
2. Food leftovers: put 'em in Tupperware sealed with metal rivets, and bury it in the deepest recesses of the refrigerator. Dispose of it either by (a) consumption, (b) subterfuge (see the beer gambit, above) or (c) see upcoming #8.
3. If it talks, answer it. If it isn't the phone or clock/radio, try to keep it talking long enough to find and kill it, before it attacks you. If it's Tupperware-adorned, get stronger rivets or a heavier gauge chain for the 'frig.
4. Vacuuming the carpet does wonders for being able to walk barefoot; but it also removes a great security feature, since you can hear your Tupperware crunching across the carpet, trying to sneak up on you. You gotta weigh the pros and cons on this 'un, and I'm just sayin'...
5. If you find something clean draped across the chair, back out of the place slowly and figure out whose place you entered by mistake.
6. If you can smell it, and it isn't tolerable, spray it with Lysol, unless (a) doing so will make it mad or (b) you live in Califorlornia, where PETF (People for the Ethical Treatment of Fungi) might protest. Even fungi and poo have rights in CA.
7. Let sleeping dust lie. If you inadvertently sneeze, and room visibility drops to zero, think about in which direction you last saw the exit door, and move toward it. While you still can.
8. Too busy/intimidated to clean or figure out what you can legally spray? Hire a maid.
9. If she's cute and willing, the cleaning can wait, but suggest going to her place, so your X-Files Tupperware doesn't get to her before you can.
10. Looking for ways to avoid visitors and holiday houseguests? Skip #8.
11. Move frequently. Once a month is about right in my case. Don't leave behind a change of address, so the morphing Tupperware can't track you.