I vacuumed the ceiling fan today. Wow! That sounds ominous. It also sounds like I'm some kind of neat freak. I'm not. The fan cleaning is necessary, not a nervous twitch cessation. It's my bedroom fan, and it needs to be vacuumed every six months. So does my house.
I know, you still don't believe me on the neat freak thing. What freaky altophobe stands on his bed in a French maid costume with a vacuum wand and a mask? Maybe the dust-fear isn't the freaky part of that. Fine, don't believe I'm a filthy pig. Ask MyUnwife, she'll tell you. I am not a neat freak. Oh she's got some story about me doing a miraculous bathroom cleaning with a fish and a loaf of bread, but that's nothing really. I think that's her only clean story about me anyway.
I won't bore you. Oh, sorry too late, huh? Well, if you want to hear the big fish story, track her down. She tells it better than I do. That's her type of story. I do other stories—better stories. She may have kept the cats, but I kept the story telling. Yeah. That keeps me warm at night.
"Once upon a time-"
"Yeah I know, I've heard that one before Rob."
"Well Rob, I don't really have anything new to offer you."
"I know, I've heard that before…"
Good times. Still doesn't make me a neat freak. I tell you true: If I were a neat freak, I would never have survived the passive aggressive wars before MyUnwife moved out. The household decayed under a moratorium on all cleaning activities. Neither of us would clean anything. An act of cleanliness would not only imply Godliness, it would imply caring. We were neither of those things. It got to be so bad I had to wear shoes in the bathroom. Actually, to walk anywhere barefoot required a fifteen minute kitty litter shake off jig. I'm Scottish, we don't jig. We curse, we flail, we fall. I do that well. It didn't get the Velcro kitty pebbles from my feet though. I was surprised the cats even bothered looking for the box with all the litter on the floor; even they were coming in on little cat feet. We'd grossed out the cat who liked to clean his butt by scooting across the floor. Yeah, I'm proud.
I think you get my point. If not I'd be happy to flog the equine carcass a little longer. I'm not a neat freak. I'm barely clean. I clean my fan because I have to. Every six months I reverse the motor. The fan goes one way for winter, one way for summer. Reversing dirty blades throws dust bunny paratroopers everyway. Everyway is always right over my bed. Anyway, If I wanted that, I'd dump the vacuum canister on my quilt for fun. No. That's not what I want. I clean the fan.
Oh, and I discovered today that my $69 dollar vacuum does a better job on the fan the $600 vacuum MyUnwife took with her. Woo hoo! Check that one under the "victory" column. Yeah, just another bed time story I tell myself so I can sleep.
I win…
I will say this though. My house is cleaner than it's been in a long time. Oh, my mom could still find dirt, but she's an expert, and she doesn't live here. She doesn't walk these halls everyday befriending the grit, trying to make pearls. Neither does MyUnwife, but there was a lot she didn't see while she was here. Me, I'm just a guy with a clean house and I have nobody to blame but myself.
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