This morning I found a tampon on the stairs. UNUSED, thank God! But still, a tampon on the stairs! It was open and lying midway up like a dead albino mouse, with the ‘tail’ dangling off the step. I have lost all control. The schnauzers are running the zoo.  

Thirteen weeks and six days ago, I had a cleaning lady. I was gainfully employed at the bank dressed everyday in my favorite peep toe heels, pencil skirt and non-sports-team-related blouses. This allowed me a part-time house elf. Her name was Debbie. During these peep toe years, Debbie came twice a month and cleaned the house from top to bottom, whether needed or not.

It was needed.

She cleaned toilets and made the house sparkle. Debbie Day made the entire work day better. No matter how many irate customers I encountered or how much second hand smoke I inhaled during the day, being greeted by fabulous CLEAN in the evening made everything worthwhile. Clean, buffed floors and lemony furniture. A fresh, peaceful house that smelled of comet mixed with bleach. Never mind that it was an environmental chemical site. Even our old stained sink looked brand spanking new after Debbie Day.

Now I am trying to perform these household duties with two schnauzers under my laceless worn-out converse sneakers. And evidently not very well.

I never much liked this plant anyway.

Annabelle is still a puppy with recessive billy goat genes. Last Christmas (her first), she destroyed two vintage Shiny Brite ornaments while I frosted cupcakes. The ornaments, displayed in a bowl on the coffee table to keep them safe, were oh too shiny and sparkly with flecks of silver glitter. Near Annabelle’s eye level—they were a schnauzer siren song.  She left behind tiny shards of glass scattered in front of the fireplace, along with the little rusty metal cap and hook that, up until that point, had survived sixty-plus years…. Annabelle does her best work in front of that warm fireplace. 

A few weeks later, as I stored away my Christmas decorations, I noticed there was not a single trace of the decorative moss that had lain all around my manger scene, cradling baby Jesus. Did the camels and donkeys eat it? Or, the Christmas Schnauzer? My nativity was displayed on the small chest beside the loveseat, waaaaay on the far side of the room next to the window. A few days later, I discovered one of the wisemen under the buffet. (By process of elimination, I decided he was the myrrh-carrying wiseman.) 

So now with the tampon incident, Annabelle can open cabinets?

She has further evolved from goat to velociraptor?

Does she have a sickle-shaped claw hidden somewhere in that curly matted coat, allowing her to open the bathroom cabinet and snag a Tampax?

Of course with no squeaker inside, she tired of it quickly, and abandoned it on the stairs. It was too plain for her…  It laid there, beneath my wall of tastefully displayed black and white family photographs. Right below Nana’s portrait. WhatWouldNanaDo?

Nana would laugh, but in that moment I was horrified. A new high low. Was there nothing sacred? 

In addition to munching family heirlooms, someone occasionally has accidents in the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs. I never catch anyone in the act, but when I discover the puddle, grumble and grab the cleaning supplies, both dogs stare at John like he is responsible. They look completely shocked. They are conniving. I drag out my new best friend – the self wringing twisty mop – to disinfect and eliminate the awful pee smell.  Because our house is ancient and the floors are unlevel, the pee flows freely from one end of the room to the other, pooling underneath the bed, completely out of reach. This is not your regular, standing on your feet, normal-people mopping. This is on-your-knees, stuck-under-the-bed, pulling-a-hamstring, crazy-people mopping. With Annabelle licking my face. 

If I’m not mistaken, by now shouldn’t we be living high above the city in a uber-cool sky pad apartment with push-button, space age conveniences? Hanna-Barbera promised as much on Saturday mornings forty years ago. My housekeeping should be seen to by Rosey. And, I’m pretty sure Astro never ate a tampon. Where is my futuristic utopia? The closest thing I have to a robot maid is Siri who lives in my smartphone and sometimes randomly speaks to me from deep inside my purse at the grocery store.

Siri is no Rosey.

While John is in Atlanta this week creating sprockets, I have four whole days to get this house in shape. But, I don’t want to start too soon as it will be a completely wasted effort and back to zoo-like conditions by Wednesday. Of course I could summon Siri to dial up Debbie. Maybe she could secretively squeeze us in. I’m sure she misses us. How could she not?

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairing:

Baha Men, Who Let The Dogs Out?