The other day Ken was getting quite frustrated with the piles of paperwork on the kitchen counter and dishes still in the sink from breakfast. I could tell his displeasure was mounting to the point of possibly grumbling his frustration in my direction at any moment. In order to subvert a lecture (I know, I married my father) and a follow-up "action plan" for maintaining the household orderliness, I came up with a better plan.
My darling husband arranged a playdate for both Valerie and Helmut and packed them in the car letting me know he'd be back in ten minutes after dropping them off. I took this as a warning that something must be accomplished or in the process of tidying up before he returned. This meant I better get out of my jammies, off the couch, and shut down the computer asap.
The moment the SUV left the driveway I spent three and a half minutes emptying and loading the dishwasher, organizing the paperwork, wiping down the cabinets and floor, and spraying the kitchen with my super-secret-miracle cleaning weapon: Mrs. Meyer's Cean Day Countertop Spray in the Lemon Verbena Scent. I need only spray down the kitchen surfaces with this Heaven sent helper to make my husband think I spent all day long scrubbing the kitchen.
With six and a half minutes left I slipped into my red lace thong boy shorts and matching bra, and tied my red and white Jessica Steele hostess apron over the ensemble while finishing it off with my red satin stilettos. I sprayed my morning bed head with Suave's Dry Shampoo and gave it a quick neck flip and root tease, then borrowed my six-year-old's strawberry flavored Lip Smackers. I returned to the kitchen with a clean sponge and my best friend Mrs. Meyers.
As I heard my husband ascending the stairs towards the kitchen he mumbled, "CARRIE! Are you still in bed?" huffing and groaning all the way up.
"I'm in the kitchen Sweetheart!" I cooed in my best Marilyn Monroe voice.
As Ken made it to the kitchen entry, his facial expression changed from grumpy and frustrated to delighted and quite humored.
As I bent over stretching across the countertop spraying and wiping I said with pouty lips, "I'm just trying to clean up this dirty, dirty, dirty kitchen...and next I am going to go to work in the bedroom where things always are even dirtier!"
Ken received my creative expression with great enthusiasm and I led him to the bedroom where I had candles lit and his most beloved French porn cued to his favorite part. We spent the next few hours delighting in the "dirtiness" of one another while abandoning all stress of having a perfectly tidy house. I also convinced Ken that until everyone is back in school and out of the house for the day, we will just have to live with the disorder as is. Of course I will continue to swallow all evidence of the messes he and I make together.
