For various reasons my attention lately has not been directed toward housekeeping, and my house shows it. I’m not a perfectly neat person in normal times, as evidenced by our monthly laundry emergencies and by the three hours I spend every other Tuesday morning frantically picking up the house so that the maids can do their job.
But even by my standards our house this week is particularly grim. It reminds me of my room when I was a twelve-year-old, only worse because every blessed room in the house is that way, and since our house was apparently built before closets were invented, the clean-up procedure is a bit more involved than the one I employed in junior high.
This morning as I made an extra large, extra caffeinated cup of coffee to fuel my upcoming cleaning binge I remarked to my husband that the job may be too large for me this time around.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You can definitely do some of it.”
His confidence was so infectious and his standards so delightfully low that he soon had me chanting, “Go Shala, go Shala, do something!”* with little more to fuel me than the fumes from my morning mug.
Is my husband an excellent manager or what?
*This cheer brought to you by the Plausible Cheering Squad.