You all know I hate to clean, right?
I mean, I think I made that abundantly clear in my previous posts.
Well, let’s just say that it’s a good thing Brett didn’t marry me for my housekeeping talents. In fact, it is a good thing I was born when I was – in the age of Equal Rights – in other times, earlier times, I would have been absolutely useless.
Let’s face it. I’m domestically impaired.
I know this, okay? I know. Still, something happened recently that made it even more obvious.
Brett and I were doing our weekly rabbit-area cleaning. Usually, I end up doing this alone, but this time – this ONE time – Brett was helping me.
Normally, after everything else is done, I clean the upstairs laundry room where we keep the big bin of rabbit hay. I use the long handled Swiffer – the best invention since bagels and cream cheese – to push all the hay to the edge of the room and then try to pick up as much as I can with my hands before vacuuming the excess hay. The vacuum usually clogs on the hay, so I have to unclog the vacuum cleaner hose several times.
Well, this time I was working with Brett, and he ended up with the task of clearing out the laundry room. There I was, busy with other tasks, I look over and couldn’t believe my eyes.
My husband – who cleans about as much as Donald Trump does – was using a broom – A BROOM – to sweep up all that hay.
I’d never even thought about using a broom. An ordinary household tool. I was like a caveman introduced to fire for the very first time.
Like I said, domestically impaired.
When I praised Brett for his ingenuity, he gave me a blank look. When I explained further, he said, “You mean, you’ve been picking all this up by hand?!” He seemed genuinely amazed and spent the rest of the night looking at me and occasionally shaking is head.
I suppose I can blame it on being left-handed and therefore right brained. We right brainers are creative, but when it comes to common sense and practicality, we’re on permanent low wattage.
Case in point, I didn’t learn to tie my shoes until I was eight years old. Thank the good Lord for Velcro, or I would have been faltering all over the school like a dim-witted imbecile. Getting good grades is one thing, but no one like to see an eight year old stumbling around like a drunk senior on prom night.
I also didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was eleven. I’m glad I didn’t actually have to train anything with a training bra, or I bet I’d still be practicing.
Learned tasks just take longer for me and as the “Broom Incident” (as it will forever be known) illustrates, I’m not so great at processes!
Thank goodness I’m pretty, right?