Housework Hate

Housekeeping has never been high on my list. Before I was married, my mother laid out the sacred rules of homemaking. I decided early on that these rules were made to be broken, or at least tampered with. Knowing me as she did, I'm sure mother feared for the preservation of our Swedish family's reputation. This daughter was definitely not the one to preserve anything. I actually had a cleaning lady in a three room apartment.

That first apartment was a "make over" upstairs in an old Victorian house in Lima, Ohio. With each step the dust descended from the ceiling and rose from the rugs. I didn't own a vacuum cleaner in those days. I made due by running around and inhaling deeply. When I suggested this to the cleaning lady, however, she picked up her purse and headed for the door. I leapt in front of her, blocked the doorway and cried out, "Don't leave me. Where will I go, what will I do?" She was kind enough not to tell me she didn't give a damn and agreed to stay if I at least had a broom to use on those dust laden carpets.

As we were transferred from one place to another by my husband's company, the first thing on my list was to hire a cleaning lady. Hub couldn't understand why I needed all this help as his mother had washed walls, scrubbed carpets, and dutifully performed that gargantuan task---spring cleaning! Deliver me from all temptation to start that routine.

I always had an excuse to have hired help---pregnancy---new baby---pregnancy---new baby plus old baby, etc. This worked five times and then it was obvious the baby ploy had been run into the ground. So, I told my husband I had T.B.. No need to let him know that just meant tired butt. I got another cleaning lady.

Hub mentioned one day he had to go outside to see if it was night or day. Couldn't I ask the cleaning lady to wash the windows? I informed him I did that but the universal answer seemed to be, "I don't do windows". I presumed if she didn't do them, nobody did. He hired a window service.

My life has changed drastically in the last seven years. Hub1 went home to the Lord and now I have another Hub. This one is adamant about a clean house. We live in a retirement community where there's plenty of help, but Hub insists on shining up the kitchen, cleaning out the refrigerator and polishing the stove.

Me? I just push back into my lovely leather recliner, fold my hands over my tummy and drift off to sleep. Life is good.

Hub 2 has already written my epitaph when my time comes to go home.

This woman now is on her way
up to the promised land.
Old Nick awaits her patiently,
A broom and dustpan in his hand.

PLAYful Drama

We're well into rehearsal for our next dramatic production here at our life enriching senior community. The members of the drama club range in age from eighty to ninety five. We're an ambitious group to be sure. There are just a few trials, probably due to age. Okay. Mainly due to age.

Our new play is about a murder at a wedding. I play the mother of the bride. I'm really pleased about this because since my youngest son was recently married, I have the dress. Imagine being the mother of the groom at age 85. But now I get to wear the dress again.

There are no scripts for our play as no one can memorize. So, at each rehearsal we just wing it. This makes for a rather interesting presentation.

We welcome anyone who wishes to be in our drama club. Therefore we have members at all stages of aging. Take one of the wedding guests who is 94, on a walker and loves to ramble on about anything other than what's in his script. We are definitely planning on having the hook available for him.

Our Alzheimer member usually forgets who she is in the play and often actually forgets who she is in this incarnation.

The bartender at the reception is hard of hearing and never picks up his cues. He invariably trips over his oxygen cord as well as his lines.

The father of the bride is young. I mean it. He's one of our maintainance fellows and is in his forties. I'm his ex-wife. His present wife is my age. Goodness, this guy really wanted to be on stage.

The grandmother of the bride, who is known a a prankster, staggers down the aisle on her three-pronged cane and sits down on a whoopie cushion. What a toot! That should send the audience rushing for air.

The youngster who plays the father of the bride is supposed to give his mother a stern look for her social error. Instead he always collapses into such hysterical laughter we are forced to rescue him with the bartender's oxygen tank.

The wedding planner is 96. She rarely remembers to show up for rehearsals. When she does come, she rushes in shouting her lines no matter where we are in the script.

I don't know how this play will turn out. In the past, we've always come together at the last minute, and the residences in our senior community fight for a seat at our performances. They love to see us make complete fools of ourselves. Whew! Are they desperate for entertainment or what.

Not to worry. Though this may age our community staff, This keeps the rest of us young.