Having a house cleaned by someone else is not in my family culture. I've had mine cleaned half a dozen times, but Carlene just had her house professionally cleaned for the first time last month.
After getting a substantial speeding ticket, and after my recent theft, I decided to restore my financial equilibrium by doing what I've always done--clean it myself, from top to bottom--instead of looking for an expert to do it.
"Cleaning" means rearranging, for one thing. Trying different lamps in different places. Throwing out half the stuff in the junk drawers. Moving pictures and mirrors. Then I polish the floors and glue the handle back on the microwave and wet the wrinkled blouses and put them in the dryer so I don't have to iron. I do not iron.
Carlene used to iron all our clothes at a big ironing machine when I was four or five. Each piece went into the crack between two circular barrels, then came out smooth, then back in with the sleeves and collars. When she started using a regular iron and ironing board, she sprinkled each piece with water in a coke bottle with holes poked in the top, then balled them up until she was ready to press them.
When I move a lamp into a different room, it literally puts a whole new light on everything. Then I see the cobwebs that I hadn't noticed and the hairs growing under the tables. So I get down on the floor and wash them all away.
I consider painting a few things, but decide that since my back's already too tight to start another project, I watch a Swedish movie called "A Man Called Ove," then go to Earl's and eat a breakfast supper of eggs and pancakes.
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