The Mister and I have a difference of opinion when it comes to preparing the house for company. He mows the lawn and hoses down the windows. I take a more practical approach and clean the house. The house is that 1800 square foot section of our suburban homestead where company will actually congregate.
Tiffany flies in this morning from Virginia, and together we will spend the rest of the week getting ready for the reunion on Saturday. In preparation for her visit, I cleaned the house top to bottom so that when she sees my home for the first time she will think I have never once impaled my foot on the horn of a plastic triceratops while rushing to find the cordless phone.
The Mister doesn’t understand the cleaning frenzy. I already keep the house somewhat tidy to reduce his and Mikey’s allergies and, hey, the lawn looks great! What more needs to be done?! I took a break from scraping the hard water stains from the shower doors to explain to him something that, after ten years, he should already understand.
There is clean, and there is company clean, and never the twain shall meet. Additionally, if clean and company clean ever did meet, it wouldn’t be on the lawn. We aren’t the Gatsbys.
My mother can come over when there are toys all over the house. She is at my house often enough to know that it does, on occasion, look like it houses more than a warren of rabbits. I’ve even had close friends or neighbors come over spur of the moment and barely broke a sweat over the dishes on the counter or the laundry on the sofa. I have the opportunity to redeem myself and besides, I’ve seen their homes, too.
But, please. Tiffany was my tennis partner in high school and was one of my bridesmaids. We live on opposite ends of the country and have seen each other twice in ten years. Today’s get-together is practically a first date, and a clean house is like a dress that gives you good boobs without looking slutty.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go clean the kick plate under the kitchen cabinets.