It is, perhaps, a testament to my stellar housekeeping abilities, that the professor – upon seeing me clean the living room Monday- asked ‘what’s going on?!’ In a tone of voice that suggested he fully expected me to tell him Will and Kate were stopping by for tea. In fifteen minutes.
‘I’m cleaning,’ I stated the obvious. ‘Yes, but baseboards?’ he replied in disbelief. ‘People clean them,’ I offered, coolly. Less than enthused about the not-so-subtle jab.
It’s true, I’m not one to clean my baseboards every week, or even every month, but all this summertime at home has made me antsy about the state of the house – specifically the thick layer of dust upon the baseboards. And the fingerprints all over the walls and windows. And the kitchen cupboards……
So I, in danger of being overwhelmed by the monumental task before me, decided to tackle the house one room at a time. Monday was devoted to the living/dining room. On Tuesday I tackled the kitchen which took much longer than I care to admit. Possibly due to the rather lengthy pause at lunch to make twenty-one burrito-tacos. So by the time the dinner hour rolled around, I was plum out of motivation and ideas.
The only thing I was interested in was making chocolate cake.
So I did. And the boys were very excited; asking every two minutes: ‘is the cake ready?’ ‘Is the cake ready?’
‘What’s the cake for?’ the professor asked, as if he’s not married to someone who bakes far more than is prudent.
‘It’s our anniversary in three days?’ I offered the only imminent celebration I could think of. He raised his eyebrows quizzically, but the lack of occasion didn’t stop anyone from partaking of the still-warm cake.
And then it was 6.30pm and the professor had to go to soccer and the two older boys begged to go with him, leaving only me and two-seconds-away-from-passing-out-on-the-floor-from-fatigue Percy. So I cleaned his room and put him to bed and tackled the remaining bedrooms.
Shortly after 9.30, the soccer player and his fans returned. Any hopes I’d had of avoiding the whole ‘dinner’ issue evaporated the second I saw the Gort’s face. ‘I’m so hungry,’ he practically cried.
‘Popcorn?’ I offered with fingers crossed.
‘I don’t think that will be enough,’ he shook his head.
Dinner would have to be made, much to my chagrin. So I filled the pasta pot with water and made a semblance of a marinara sauce and fifteen minutes later, we inhaled spaghetti.
‘Time for bed,’ the professor ordered when the pasta was gone. ‘But I’m still waiting for the popcorn,’ the Gort protested.
I looked at him with ‘that ain’t happening’ eyes. ‘The popcorn was [offered] instead of dinner, but then I had to make dinner, so now there’s no popcorn.’