III: In Which I Attack Some Housework Chores Previously Handled by my Future Ex-Wife

To understand what follows, a little background information is necessary.

In February, my future ex-wife and I acknowledged that we were driving each other stark raving bonkers, and we agreed that a trial separation would be a good idea. Some friends offered her their spare room, which she accepted. Since then, the only thing that has changed is that the word 'trial' has been dropped.

Which means that I've been living alone in our house for three months. It's been weird; as my sister reminded me the other day, I haven't lived alone since 1980, and even then it was only for a few months. Life in New York City for the non-fabulous by necessity entails roommates unless you're willing to live in something along the lines of a postage stamp-size studio in Douglaston; I was not. Later, when I relocated to North Carolina, it was with wife already in tow.

Next week, my future ex will be house-sitting/dog-sitting while I'm up in New York for business. This means that I have to get the house ready for her.

Now as I have previously admitted, I was not exactly fastidious during our marriage. My ex was simply better at cleaning house than I was, and like The Dude I am most definitely a lazy man. I even convinced myself that tasks such as laundry were simply too complex for me to master. The human mind is a wondrous thing indeed.

And adaptable to all life situations. For example, here's how confused your thinking gets when reluctant bachelorhood is thrust upon you: It actually crossed my mind these past few days that my cleaning up for my future ex might make her unhappy, that she might react by thinking "Why the hell couldn't he do this while we were still together?" (I often imagine ridiculous and implausible arguments, for some reason. My mind works pretty much this way; the germane section starts at 3:55). And I seriously pondered how thorough a job of cleaning I should do to strike just the right balance; enough to show an effort, but not enough to educe reflection on what a piss-poor effort I'd made throughout our marriage. Fortunately, in the midst of these deliberations I discovered a stainless steel serving-bowl I had "cleaned." It bore ample evidence of the salad served from it, and I immediately realized that I could clean to my heart's delight without fear that my future ex-wife would ever mistake me for an efficient cleaner.

Today's big chore was shampooing the carpets. It's something that has to be done before we show the house anyway, and I figured if I hadn't done it before she arrived she might do it herself, and then I'd feel as though I'd once again left her a housecleaning job that I was perfectly capable of doing myself. I broke out the Bissell (not to be confused with the Bessell) and the instruction manual, hoping that the machine's operation was intuitive, as I am very bad with instruction manuals. (It was, I'm pretty sure; at any rate, the carpets are clean and the machine appears not to be broken.)

I read enough of the manual to learn that I needed to vacuum the carpets first prior to shampooing. I did this with the thoroughness with which I do all cleaning jobs, which is to say I was sure I'd done a great job and subsequently learned otherwise. Then it was time to fire up the Bissell. It's a pretty easy job, just like vacuuming except that you pass over every spot twice; first to dispense soapy water, then to suck it up. The machine makes a happy gurgling noise and the bottom of your socks get pleasingly damp with warm soapy water as you work. All in all, it was not the horrible chore I'd feared. In fact, it was actually quite pleasant.

The task was not without its complications, of course. An inexperienced cleaner, I found myself working on spots over and over in an effort to remove stains that, I eventually realized, were in fact shadows. My inexpert vacuuming evidenced itself in the furballs the Bissell started to cough up with increasing frequency as the job went on. Apparently one of our dogs has learned to shed deep into the carpet; perhaps she is burying the fur to recover in her dotage in case she goes bald. She is now in for a rude surprise, should she live so long.

A piece like this traditionally ends with some sort of gained insight about the ennobling qualities of housework, or about the importance of pulling your own weight in a marriage when it's time to deal with the inevitable drudgeries, or about the occasional miraculous qualities of shadows. Truth be told, though, the only insight I gained today is that I would like to someday be wealthy enough to pay someone else to clean my house. Because then the job would get done right and I'd have nothing to feel bad about.

So there you go.