Cleaning the house makes me feel happier. Rubbing everything down with Pledge and a worn out cloth, vacuuming under everything, getting in all the nooks and corners. Going at the stove until it gleams, degreasing the stove hood.
If she let me I’d live in a white box with wood floors and two pieces of furniture and everything would glow.
Of course, I thank God she won’t let me do that.
When I was going to polygraph school I lived in an apartment by myself and I cleaned it twice a day and there was nothing in it except a bed and a sofa and a dining table and a big fake ficus tree in the corner.
It was as lifeless a place as you could imagine.
Our place is a gorgeous wonderland of art and beauty and oddness that I treasure deep in my bones. Every time I walk into the house it strikes me dumb with the beauty and love and goodness that it radiates.
Then I see my wife and my fat little bulldog and it gets even worse.
I have to go now. The woman wants a platter of pu-pu’s and a glass of Parson’s Flat Shiraz before I make her my to-die-for hot skillet pizza.
Namaste, you princes of Maine, you kings of New England!
May you be as blessed as I am and may it not cease for any of us.