June Cleaver Meets Elvira, Mistress Of the Dark

Task:
Clean house and, if time permits, indulge in some private afternoon delight between loads of laundry.

Ensemble:
Apron and a smile.

Outcome:
I don't know - maybe it's wacked out middle-age hormones, or maybe it was David Hasselhoff and the Baywatch rerun I'd watched while eating my lunch but whatever the reason, Wednesday afternoon found this housewife in the mood, if you know what I mean.

On the down side, I had hours to go until the husband was due home from work. On the upside, both kids were away at camp and I had the house to myself. There was only one thing to do. I rifled through my closet and from its special spot between my winter boots and the "skinny" clothes which I hope to wear again one day, I brought out "Mr. Happy".

Mr. Happy is reserved for those times when a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, if you know what I mean.

Now typically Mr. Happy and I would retire to the bedroom but today the dog was sleeping there and I didn't have the heart to kick her out. (Despite my husband's assertions that that's what dogs do, lay around, I think she's been showing signs of depression since the kids left for camp and I didn't think it wise to move her.)

Mr. Happy and I made our way down the hall. Obviously the children's rooms were out of the question - that was just sick.

I briefly considered the living room but seeing how I had recently cleaned the windows, I was concerned about giving the neighbours too much of a view.

That left the basement. Yes, that would be good. It not only afforded me privacy, it's also where the spare batteries are stored - the electronic equivalent of Viagra. Off I went.

I settled myself in the spare room and spent an enjoyable few minutes thinking about neither the Queen nor the ironing. Then, feeling like Mrs. Happy herself, I emerged. I was making my way upstairs when I noticed how dirty the laundry room floor was.

Deciding to deal with it right then and there, I grabbed the vacuum and plugged it in. But what to do with Mr. Happy? I was afraid to put him down. What if I forgot and one of the children eventually found him? Then I'd be forced to think fast and lie like my good friend K. who told her daughter that her Mr. Happy was a tool for cleaning the radiators. I couldn't do that. We have a forced air furnace.

I opted to tuck Mr. Happy into my pocket. Looking a little like a cross between June Cleaver and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, I set about my quest of annihilating the dust bunny nation. On a roll, I also cleaned the downstairs bathroom and threw in a load of laundry.

Then the doorbell rang.

By this time, I'd forgotten all about Mr. Happy who was poking his head (pardon the pun) out like a contented joey from its mother's pouch.

I answered the door and there was the Fed Ex delivery guy. He gave me my parcel then handed me a receipt to sign. Instinctively my hand went to my pocket in search of a pen. And there was Mr. Happy.

"If I make a sudden move and jerk my hand away", I thought, "I'll certainly call attention to Mr. Happy or worse, dislodge him from his hiding place and send him hurtling like a projectile at the delivery man."I decided to leave my hand where it was.

"Do you have a pen?" I asked the Fed Ex guy.

He handed me a Bic and I scrawled my name with my left hand.

I watched through my clean windows as the Fed Ex guy got in his truck and drove off. Noting the uncanny resemblance he bore to David Hasselhoff, Mr. Happy and I set off in search of more dust bunnies.