Hath Not Old Custom Made this Life More Sweet?

~As You Like It, act 2, scene 1

***WARNING: This entry is long. Over 2000 entire words are used. I know that's longer than the average Joe's average blog entry, but I have faith that you can do it. You don't have to read it all at once, you know. You can take breaks. Go for a walk. Do some crunches. Enjoy a frosty beverage. Or two. And then come back and finish up. Think of it as a really short book, without the risk of papercuts.***


A great cleaning convenience? Or a sucker purchase for tidy-challenged types?

The Spouse is a funny sort of bird. I'm not complaining, mind you. I can think of no worse purgatory than a lifetime shared with an average, unimaginative and completely normal sort of mate. Not that imagination is particularly The Spouse's strong suit, of course. The Spouse does not come home from work bursting with ideas about how to make a crazy Rube Goldberg device that will turn on the shower, toast the bread, make the bed and start the MINI when the alarm goes off. Nor is The Spouse the sort to come up with outrageous surprises that leave me gob-smacked and speechless when my birthday rolls around. But The Spouse is anything but average, and, I suspect, scores well above the mean even when it comes to creativity, if television sitcoms and grocery checkout magazines have any truth in them. (Admittedly a big if...)

The reason I mention The Spouse's oddness this week is because I'm the sort of person who likes to find patterns. Recognizing patterns is a way to order and understand the universe; and analyzing patterns (and deciding how to change, if necessary) is a way to improve the universe. "Know thy traditions, but be not wedded to them." If some profound sage of the Ancient World didn't say that, they should have.

Anyhoo, The Spouse's special oddness has been defying patterns lately, and so I write this in the hopes that the creative process will help me sort it out a bit better. The oddness surrounds household tasks in general, and cleaning in particular.

For your consideration I present you with the following scenarios:

#1 Tooltime Triage
This first scenario is not particularly noteworthy, except in combination with the others bellow. The Spouse and I own a house - at least, as long as the four outer walls and roof stay up I'm going to continue to call it so. Suffice it to say that our house requires a wee bit o' repair work before we make the House Beautiful centerfold. But the neighborhood and the location are great, and damn it, not only do we boast a sizable back yard (by DC standards), but we have a DRIVEWAY! Sure, our kitchen lights only go on after about 30 tries (and they're those long rectangular fluorescent ceiling numbers with pull strings that lend the kitchen all the warmth and cheer of a fish-gutting facility), but not having to grapple with the meter maids - that, my Mastercard-toting friends, really is priceless.

I'm afraid I digress, but the point is that many a DIY opportunity presents itself in our current abode. The Spouse and I work together on most of these opportunities, and lately I've noticed a disturbing trend. I'll usually go down to the basement and get all the tools we think we need. Inevitably, The Spouse will look at the tools, look at the project, look at the tools again and sigh. "This probably isn't going to work," The Spouse will declare. "We need a --- to do this properly." Now, what we need is generally right back down in the basement - I picked the wrong sized wrench, the not-quite-right bit for the power drill, etc. "Would you like me to go down and get it?" I'll ask, as I start to move towards the basement door. "Naw. We can probably make this work okay," The Spouse will shrug. "Don't bother. Let's make this work."

I am all for being flexible and 'making it work.' But some things can not be improvised all that well. Needless to say, about 75% of the time, it would have been much easier, cheaper, and more effective for me to go get the appropriate tool.

Why does this happen over and over? Why does The Spouse refuse to approve the second basement trip? Is it the challenge? The overwhelming ennui of always failing to anticipate the right tool requirements? The displeasure at one of us having to make an extra trip? And why the hell don't I just go down again anyway despite Spousely disapproval? Do I dislike the walk down to the basement that much? Am I overwhelmed by the likelihood that the second round at the toolbench will be no more successful that the first? Have I resigned myself to this ritual as part of The Spouse's and my 'together time'? Man, I hope not.

Now, consider if you please,
#2 The Clorox Wipe Imbroglio
The Spouse and I are at Costco; this is another one of the things we like to do together. People will say we are a boring old married couple, but I can proudly assert that we enjoyed our grocery store 'dates' well before we were married. Thus making us simply boring. But those of you who have not accompanied us, in an observational capacity of course (actively shopping with a third person throws us off our groove), don't know what you are missing. We generally have fun grocery shopping together, and at Costco, especially if we're not in a hurry, we frequently have a ball. I don't know why; that's just the way it is. So work with me here and go with it for a moment.

So, as I was saying, The Spouse and I are at Costco, having our usual thrill a minute, perusing the aisles. We try to contemplate a world where anyone needs that much nail polish remover, and how long it would take a determined person to work through the entire super-duper jumbo-sized box of fish-sticks (and what the doctors would be thinking as they worked the stomach pump). I move on while The Spouse stops to do a series of calculations aimed at determining how the bulk discount on really big packs of fresh meat compares to the unit cost of weekly specials on similar fresh meat at our local, unSuper-Sized supermarket. (This is one of The Spouse's favorite grocery shopping sports, and one I find incredibly tedious. The end result is generally a lot of pork chops and boneless chicken breasts in the freezer, just in case you're thinking of stopping by for a bite to eat.) While The Spouse is still muttering something about 80%-lean ground beef versus 90%, I arrive in the cleaning supplies aisle. Here I find Clorox pre-moistened disinfecting wipes ("Why just wipe when you can Clean and Disinfect!"). The price seems good; and they are sold in a three pack instead of one He-man sized box (our house isn't particularly tiny, but it's no Castle Greyskull). I think to myself, this is great. We can keep one in the car, one in the kitchen, and one in the upstairs bathroom. How convenient!

But when The Spouse catches up with the mandatory HUGE pack of pork chops, I get nothing but scoffs. "That" The Spouse proclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at my disinfecting wipes, "is a sucker's purchase!" Seems The Spouse thinks these new-fangled pre-moistened cleaning implements are just designed to make you lazy and drain the exchequer. "Just get a sponge and some cleaning fluid!" I am so taken aback I can barely defend my selection. "But... sometimes you have a germ emergency! We can keep some in the car! Don't you get it - they clean AND disinfect! Are you some kind of Communist?" My retorts fall on deaf ears. I invoke the handiness of the post-BBQ dinner moistened towlette packs in restaurants. I refer to the delights of instant gratification. I mention the incredible clutter under the kitchen sink, where our 'cleaning fluids' are kept. Since anyone being serious and saying the word 'fluids' always reminds me of General Jack "Have you ever seen a Commie drink a glass of water" Ripper, I make a few Dr. Strangelove jokes. The Spouse continues to mutter "sucker purchase".

Now, in the Tooltime Triage scenario, The Spouse seemed to prefer us not wasting time with a second trip to the basement for the proper tools. Yet in The Clorox Wipe Imbroglio, The Spouse clearly puts a higher price on money than time, demanding trips to the cleaning supply area whenever a need for disinfecting arises. As for the whole "sucker purchase" thing, I'm not even going to bother to directly deal with that. Hello! "Why just wipe?!?" 'Nuff said.

Which brings us to item #3, The Incident of the Bathroom that Cried Out in the Night. In the Bathroom incident, The Spouse and I have gotten into bed. It is 1am. The Spouse decides some allergy medication is in order, gets out of bed and goes to the adjoining bathroom. I hear the medicine cabinet open, a pause. "Wow. It's really dirty behind the tub," The Spouse calls out. I agree - it is really dirty - the tub is an old claw foot model that doesn't fit into the corners precisely, and it is almost impossible to reach back there easily. Furthermore, the bathroom has no vent, and so the window is frequently left open, which lets in more dust and dirt. I am about to comment how odd it is that The Spouse chose 1am when we are both in bedtime mode to look behind the tub, when something even odder happens. The Spouse goes downstairs and comes back with the Swiffer Wet. (Yes, you are right - the Swiffer Wet is the mop version of the Clorox Disinfecting Wipes of the previous tale, but I've been taking the moral high ground and not pointing it out. The only likely outcome is a rejection of the ways of the Swiffer, and a return to the mop and bucket as the un-sucker-like thing to do.) The Spouse then proceeds to Swiffer the bathroom at 1 in the morning; I have no idea how The Spouse manages to get in the corners behind the claw foot tub (I suspect by taking off the premoistened Swiffer cloth and using it by hand - thus creating an EXACT equivalent to my much-maligned Clorox wipes!), but the fact is, when I get up the next day, it is clean.

I just don't know what to make of this. We were tired; The Spouse had to get up early in the morning. And while it was dirty behind the tub, it was just dirt. There was no mold, or dust bunnies or mildew or anything all that unsanitary. And the dirt wasn't in piles like an overflowing sugar bowl. It was just really dirty in the normal sort of way. And the person who won't bother to invest the time to get the right tools, who feels that Clorox Wipes are a thing of decadence, decides not just to clean, but to Swiffer-Wet at 1 am in the morning. Kinda weird, am I right? Not a complete refutation of The Spouse's belief system heretofore expressed, just kinda weird.

Finally, we have #4, The Service Contract-covered Dryer of Despair. The Spouse broke the dryer. Many months ago - June, I think. The dryer came with the house, and is a delightful bit of nostalgia from the 1960s. The previous owner left us the original operating manual, which included sketches of apron and high-heel-wearing housewives puzzling over the dryer controls. The manual included such sparkling gems as, "We women don't want to worry ourselves over complicated mechanics and such, but there are a few basics we should understand about our new dryer to make the wash-day easier," and "If [these incredibly basic troubleshooting tips] don't work, thank goodness the [dryer-vendor] Man is just a telephone call away!" Clearly, we own a piece of pre-sexual revolution history, in addition to an appliance. So it was with some sadness that I learned that The Spouse - for the second time, no less - had broken our vintage electronic by taking the barrel thingy of its track, so the dryer no longer works its tumble drying magic. (I'd be more technical about it, but I don't want to worry anyone over complicated mechanics and such.) The previous time this had happened, I called the dryer company, because, believe it or not, the previous owner had been paying for a service contract on the dryer since the Kennedy administration. The night the dryer died again, we were tossing our laundry into the hamper, basketball-style. I told The Spouse I bet the next shot - a particularly difficult one The Spouse was lining up for from behind the imaginary 3-point line, wouldn't go in. If it did, I'd be the one to call the dryer repair guy. "Agreed," said The Spouse, and promptly missed the shot.

Now, I'm not trying to be petty here; The Spouse handles the laundry duties, more or less, and so it isn't a Costco-sized deal to me. But that was over a fiscal quarter ago, and The Spouse never called anyone about the dryer. It remains broken in our basement, along with all the proper tools I never manage to bring up, and copious clotheslines. And now our service contract - our last direct link to Jack and Jackie's Camelot - has expired. And I just don't get it. The dryer guy came for free. Could The Spouse just not bear the thought of dialing a 1-800 number? Too busy to spend 3 mintues on the phone? Is The Spouse just a no-good welcher, who decided to wait me out until I was fed up with the lack of tumble-dried fluffy towels and called myself? The Spouse never mentioned it directly. Now we've started looking at new dryers, which is nobody's idea of a fun way to blow at least a few hundred dollars.

So there you have it. Around the house, where's the pattern? Not convenience all the time, nor economy, nor efficiency. It's not that I've been thrown a loop after only one-and-a-half years of marriage and must suddenly question whom it is I've married. I've known The Spouse over 10 years: The Spouse is the picture of reliability in most other aspects of our lives. Maybe The Spouse is just getting weird as age 30 creeps closer. Maybe this is just something I'll never find a pattern for, and I'll have to grow to be content with the wacko habits of that crazy Spouse of mine, sans explanation. Not that I should really complain. Usually, it's pretty easy being the spouse of The Spouse. If I can just find a way to consider these little quirks endearing, I'll be in the clear. Until I can, I'll be puzzling over things, Clorox Wipe in hand. Because really, when your Spouse is acting like a weirdo, why just wipe when you can Clean and Disinfect?