I must confess, I am not a cleaner. My house has been kept tidy for years by an army of lovely women who like to clean, clean, clean. It is very low on my priority list. Since we retired, Ken said it was no longer in our budget to have housecleaners. He stepped up and said he would do it. Now we share some of the tasks because I like to keep the kitchen ship-shape so I can cook, which I love to do.

I recognize that clean is a relative term. One person’s clean may be another person’s squaller. My mother for instance was a clean freak. She loved to clean.  She had a full-time weekday job but it was her passion to spend hours on the weekends keeping things spic and span, washing everything from knickknacks to floors, woodwork and walls, dusting, mopping, etc. She derived great joy from her efforts.

As a young married, I tried to emulate her cleaning regimen but was never able to summon the passion. As our family grew, I drudged through a succession of small abodes in those early years like I was slogging uphill through mud. It never made me happy like it did her. Everything that was cleaned was dirty again within minutes. Ugh, I hated it.

I developed a skin condition called psoriasis. At that point, I was mom to three children under four years old, and with all the diapers (back in the day before paper diapers – everything was washed), kid cleaning, and house cleaning, my skin rebelled. I’m sure it had something to do with my reluctance to clean – a deep psychological kickback. The skin on my arms and legs cracked and bled. They were irritated, itchy, and painful. It began to creep up to my chest and neck. Then along came my knight in shining armor. My doctor pronounced that I was sensitive to dust, household chemicals, rubber gloves, even water used too much would make my delicate skin break out. In short, I was allergic to housework and if I didn’t stop soon the disease would become chronic. Well, I couldn’t stop cleaning my children so it was obvious that I would have to stop cleaning my house. Ken agreed to immediately hire a house cleaner. Within weeks, my skin condition cleared up completely and has never returned.

Ken was good to his word at retirement and shouldered most of the housework. Sixteen years later, Ken had to go into the hospital. It was supposed to be an overnight or maybe two-night stay but turned into three nightmarish weeks. At first with my attention totally on Ken and his physical wellbeing, I ignored the house. I kept the cat boxes changed. I didn’t cook so there was nothing to do in the kitchen. I was home only a few hours at night and that was spent trying to sleep.

I began to notice large clumps of black fur, white fur, brown fur. It is summer. The cats are shedding. I never saw that before because Ken would have the vacuum out whenever anything landed on the floor. I haven’t touched a vacuum in fifty years and hadn’t a clue how to start it. I needed some guidance so I could clear out the fur that was becoming ankle-deep. I imagined that when Ken came home it might be waist high at the rate they were going.

Ken said it was so easy and gave me a rudimentary lesson. I went home, and pulled the vacuum from the closet. That’s when I noticed it was named SHARK. The ominous theme music of JAWS ran through my head. Why was it not named Mrs. Trilby or Mr. Pristine – making one think of helpful servants, not a predatory monster.

Me and Shark had to get acquainted. He is an upright kind of guy, at least three and a half feet tall. In order to get his wheels going he needs to be clicked out of his military posture into a more relaxed sloping position. The problem I had was that his upper part (the heaviest section) when released, wobbles, swirling right or left and back again. He has very little control over his own movements when clicked out of his upright posture. Ken says he weighs about fourteen pounds, but I swear I was wrestling fifty pounds as I tried to get Shark to straighten up, mind my commands, and go in a steady line. He has three levels so he can pound on carpets or glide on tile and something in between. I had a hard time getting the correct setting while keeping his body from spinning around. I was holding the handgrip with two hands, like grasping the dorsal fin of a rampaging Great White as it veered this way and that.

On my first try, I managed to sweep up a clump or two of fur but stopped as I started sweating. It just can’t be that hard. It was late at night, and I was really tired, I reasoned. The next day I tried again and didn’t get much better except I had Shark on the right setting.  Three days later, I left the hospital early (before dark) and got home determined to conquer the damn vacuum. I pulled Shark up to my chair and had a talk with him. I explained that Ken was ill and couldn’t be his partner in the cleaning dance. He would have to accept me and be patient with my clumsy steps. I tried not to blame him since, after all, he is a machine made by some satanic engineer, but it was difficult to keep from crying. I begged his indulgence as I pushed the start button.

It worked. He was rather more accommodating as I went from one room to another. We seemed to have reached détente. I wouldn’t say buddies, but at least noncombatants. The floor was beginning to reappear. Just as I was feeling downright successful, Shark tripped me. He wrapped his cord around my ankle and almost sent me down. I recovered, pulled the cord from the wall socket, and unwrapped my leg.

“Why?” I asked.  “We were getting along so well.”

Shark didn’t look the least bit chagrined. He stood there in that nonchalant posture daring me to blame him for my ineptitude.

“You just wait until Ken gets home. He’ll make you obey.”

I swear Shark shrugged.