Housekeeping! May I fluff your peeloh?

When you’re in a working relationship, you try to do things out of love. Sometimes you do things out of spite. And sometimes, you do things because the alternative is just too revolting for words.

This weekend, during the two 5-hour shifts he was gone at work, I cleaned his room. No, I OVERHAULED his room.

The first time I ever walked into his room, it was dark. I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t notice his Beavis & Butthead poster or the dust icicles hanging from his ceiling. I was too busy not-watching the movie and trying to make a move on the oblivious but handsome boy sitting next to me.

These days, he’s still handsome (and oblivious). We still not-watch movies and I still make moves on him (although it’s gotten noticeably easier to get his attention). But MY GOD, if ever there were a room that cried out NEGLECT, it would be his. His room was like the potbellied orphan on TV whose big eyes said, “Help me! I eat dirt and poop and the flies are my friends!”

Saturday night, I heard the cry of the potbellied orphan: “Clean me! Clean me!” I had a flash vision of Jason’s buddies high-five’n him. “Your girlfriend cleans your room? All right! Rock!” But I’m not a submissive wife with dirty feet in a baggy dress. I’m a clean-cut girlfriend who cleans because it’s therapeutic; as I clean out a room, I clean out my mind. Plus, I don’t want to step on any more mysterious crunchies on his floor or stare at any more dust icicles before I fall asleep.

So I made his bed. I scoured his dresser for boxers and tee shirts with holes, held them up before my scrutinizing nose, made a face, and threw each one into the trash. (That’s right, honey. If you’re reading this, I threw away your holey, thinned out boxers and I DID IT WITH A HAPPY FACE. And they’re LONG GONE now so you CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! Who’s your daddy now?!)

Then I climbed the Mount Clothes Everest and brought back small piles to fold and organize. Climb, fold, organize, store in dresser, repeat. I organized each drawer according to type. Underwear, tee shirts, jeans, and khakis. Since his room is small and storage space is limited, I neatly laid his pants in a corner of his floor and only stored away warm weather clothes. At least this way, he’d reach for clothes already on the floor and won’t mess up my pristine organizational skills inside the dresser, now that it’s turning cold.

I tucked away his duffle bags. I dragged his army bag full of gun ammo into the corner. I organized his smelly shoes. I picked up all his cough drop and gum wrappers. I took out his trash. I vacuumed the floor, sucking up years of hair, BB gun pellets, dirt, and grime. And to top it all off, I sprayed the air with Febreze so that the surprise would smell fresh.

I closed the door and waited for him to come home. His reaction was priceless.

“What the hell happened to my room?!
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Suppressing smile.
“But it’s…it’s cl-clean! And my clothes! Y-you…what did you do?!”
Why, I just don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t suppress smile any longer.
“Mooooom! She cleaned my room! And you let her?!”

Despite his teasing, he couldn’t stop smiling.

The next night, he was gone again. So I cleaned again.

This time I attacked the long, makeshift shelves above his headboard. I should have taken a picture. His shelves were what Rip Van Winkle would have found if he had woken up on a shelf, then was visited by King Dust and Queen Grime, who then pooped MORE dust and grime on the shelf, and then had 1 million dust babies who had 10 million more dust babies who ALL POOPED MORE dust and grime on the shelf.

And Jason has 5 of those shelves - WITH YEARS of long lost collectibles, old receipts, letters from every insurance agency on the planet, alcohol bottles, golf balls, buttons, knives, legos, toy cars, nails, coins, and every odd wangdoodle and wagnot you can think of. (Including an old, yellow stalk of weed.) ALL SO DUSTY that I couldn’t tell the shape or color of anything until I hosed it with cleaner and scrubbed each item with 10 paper towels.

I know.

So I attacked one shelf at a time. I scrubbed every item until it shone with my reflection. I stood on my tippy toes to wipe each shelf with Orange Pledge. Every swipe of the towel collected inches of black dust that would fall onto his bed. (I kept my mouth closed in fear of wayward dust balls.) Then I sorted through everything, knowing that the dirtiest trash can be the most prized treasure (which means my ass is grass if I throw away anything important). So I inspected each item, which ended up either in the Paper-Letter Box, Odds-End Box, or Trash of Doom Bag. Items left went back on the shelf, this time placed in a way that was tasteful and space-efficient.

Hours later, I was finished. My hands were caked with Pledge oil and my hair probably had a dust ball or two clinging to it, but you should have seen that wall. The Hygiene Angels were singing. I was ready to throw away the evidence, re-Febreze the air, and wait for my praise.

But he came home early. I had just stepped off his bed and was reaching for the trash bag when he walked in. I froze.

“Hi! Wait a second, what’s this? HEY! What the- YOU CLEANED MY ROOM AGAIN! MOOOOOM! You let her clean my room again?!”

After he calmed down, (“This is going to take me YEARS to dirty up again!”), he insisted on checking my work by sorting through the trash with the weed stalk. He salvaged a few gun parts, but other than that, I had done a good job.

Once again, Jason was smiling. “I can’t believe you cleaned my room,” he said, “You’re too good for me.”

I know. I replied. I know.