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Only a self confessed slob will appreciate the following ….

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

Zone 1
Zone 2
Zone 3
Zone 4
Zone 5
Zone 6
Zone 7
Zone 8

….  And the radio is playing, “Friday, Friday, gotto get down on Friday,” the rest of America is gearing down; looking forward to a restful weekend, sleeping in and that sort of thing. At my abode, Friday evenings mean stay out of Dad’s way ….

…. because he’s zoning.

Over and out.

“3500 sq feet divided into 8 zones,” my husband had explained to me years ago. “One zone a week and the house will be spotless in two months.”

Yippee! I married a strategist. “Then we can take the rest of the year off,” I said cheerfully.

He furrowed his brows and shook his head. “No, then we start over.” He enunciated each word carefully, like he was speaking to an idiot child.

My math deficient brain furiously tried to calculate the extent of the effort required each and every week for the entire year.

437.5 sq feet a week; roughly the size of efficiency or a one bedroom apartment. That would  be like cleaning an entire living space each week. This was too much. Didn’t our marriage vows say something about making each other happy? Forever? He must not have been paying extra close attention when he agreed to all that.

“Can’t we divide the total square footage by 52 weeks instead? That would make it 67 sq ft a week, about the size of a small bathroom,” I cajoled.

Totally doable.

“Look, you don’t have to do any of it. Just stay out of my way,” he said with a resigned sigh.

In my defense, I had established very early in our relationship that I was an unmitigated slob. But now guilt kicked in.

“I’ll keep the kitchen clean, if you like,” I had offered gamely.
He shot me a look which could’ve only passed for “whatever!”
“I’ve got the kiddos covered; fed, watered, dressed, and mostly literate, so no worries there,” I added.

So we had a deal.

Over the years, weekly cleaning at my abode has taken on a near spiritual feeling. Every Friday, after dinner, he moves rugs, carpets, assorted bric a brac to a pre designated area in the foyer, in preparation for the ritual cleaning which begins at the crack of dawn on Saturday. The rest of us live by the mantra “Venture downstairs at your own risk.” – because there’s a good chance of slipping on wet floors, tripping over rolled up rugs, that sort of thing.

Our children have grown up never having seen their mother handle a mop or operate a vacuum. So imagine our collective confusion when the refrigerator coils needed cleaning and the repairman asked to use the vacuum! This too on a day when my husband was busting his chops at work, earning us a living. Imagine the chaos when we finally found Dad’s vacuum cleaner, in five or six separate pieces, washed and drying on a mat in the garage! And none of us knew how to assemble the darned thing.

Needless to say, I’m the envy of a lot of women. In their eyes, I had struck the lottery; The Powerball. I’m inclined to agree.

…. the radio plays on.

“Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend, weekend
Fun, fun, fun, fun

Lookin’ forward to the weekend.”