CUE THE SHARK'S THEME FROM JAWS.
Now and again, we have a dinner party at our house.
Why? Because it's our turn.
Since this tends to coincide with spring, and because the White Trash Syndrome says you can't have people over without doing major cleaning, yard work, and buying enough food to feed the Chinese Army, it generally takes a week of preparation.
Generally, our housekeeping is haphazard. We offer a lick and a promise most of the time, and get to it reluctantly when the dust bunnies start to crowd around the dog food bowls to be fed. If you live with dogs, you know that dog hair quickly becomes a condiment.
Sometimes, it collects and rolls down the hall like tumbleweeds. Growls at the vacuum cleaner.
The cat also brings us gifts, but now and then mislays them, and we don't always find them right away. It's the thrill of unexpected discovery–half a mouse here, part of a hummingbird there, Junco feathers in the washroom ...
DIAL UP THE MUSIC:
The party is upcoming and the work has commenced, and today, after a mere five hours, the two of us have managed to sweep, mop, vacuum, steam-clean the carpets, scrub the kitchen and bathrooms, and tire ourselves out real good.
The dogs whined to go out as soon as we moved the first stick of furniture. They hate having the cave rearranged and cleaned.
This is how we define a cleaning frenzy: Once you get started, it is difficult to stop. When you find yourself on your knees with a toothbrush cleaning the baseboards and resorting to a knife to get that one fucking little spot there ... it is time to quit. No matter how much you've done, you notice stuff you missed, and that way lies madness ...
FREEZE FRAME. FADE TO BLACK.