A few years back, my dad decided it would be a fantastic idea to clean out the fireplace with his shop vac. And I’m sure it was a fine thought, if only he’s remembered to attach the proper vent covers. Mom walked into the living room to find Dad happily vacuuming away, oblivious to the plume of soot blowing out from the back of the machine. She called me with the bluest voice you ever did hear, and I immediately drove over there to help with the marathon cleaning event that required scouring and dusting every square inch of that house from fan blade to base boards and everything in between. Did I mention all this happened on her birthday? Yeah.
I will never forget this. Sure as all get out, my parents won’t forget this. And yet…
Last week, I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned my house, all expect for the bathroom we are currently remodeling / redecorating. You see, we are in the process of removing the ugly 80s wallpaper so that we can paint the walls in pretty, non-80s colors (I HATE wallpaper). And this past weekend, we were at the stage where we needed to sand some of the backing paper off the walls. Which my husband gamely did while I took the kids to a birthday party. And it all would have been fine if he’d done as I requested (multiple times) and closed the damn door. (I try not to swear around here too much, but this calls for it.) But, no.
I came home to a thick layer of dust all over everything and then some. I’m pretty sure I stood there fish-faced while he looked at me wondering if I were having a stroke. Almost. When I showed his the fruits of his labor, he did apologize, and I will absolutely make him fulfill his promise of helping me reclean the entire house (most he will be cleaning and I’ll be telling him how to do it, because I have totally earned that supervisory role). But not until he finishes the sanding. Oh no, I am not doing this a 3rd time.
Although, it’s killing me to sit here and look at the dust. If those cleaning fairies are ever going to show up, now would be a good time.