Listen to thisThe other day I told my wife I’d invited a few people over for a little soiree on New Year’s Eve.
Well, those were the words that left my mouth. What she heard, evidently, was “Today I murdered the cutest baby kitten you ever saw.”
She looked at me in open-mouthed astonishment that quickly turned to outrage."You did ... what?”
I’m sure what I said next was, “I invited some people over for New Year's. Why, is there a problem?”
But from her reaction, what I actually said was “Oh, and I used your Granny’s antique linen tablecloth to clean up when the dog barfed.”
"How could you – why would you – why? Why?” she spluttered.
Then I remembered: “Oh, right. You don’t like me to make the social plans. I always forget.”
And I do always forget. I can’t tell you how many times I have made that particular faux pas. I will tell her about a social engagement I have offered or accepted, and she will fly into a rage.
It always baffles me. Here I go out of my way to see that she’s entertained, arranging a night of laughter and conversation with good friends, and she gets all annoyed with me.
I will confess that there have been times when I have made arrangements and not actually written them down on the big calendar on the fridge, which can sometimes be a problem, particularly when I remember to tell her the afternoon of the event. ("Here? For dinner? Tonight?”)
But it’s not like our social calendar is chock-a-block with high society parties. Apart from this time of year, when there tend to be more invitations, we’re not social butterflies. More like social puppies. We’ll usually come when we’re called, we’re happy for the attention, and you can be pretty sure we’ll eat anything that’s left out.
Both my wife and I love to entertain, but my wife is really odd about who actually makes the decision to have the event. She insists on having the final say, because she claims that she has to do all the work.
"Fine,” I said. “I'll do all the work for the New Year’s Party.” I figured I had her there.
She laughed derisively. “Right,” she said.
"No, I will. I'll do all the grocery shopping, all the cooking, all the baking."
"And the cleaning?” she said. I hesitated.
It’s not that I wouldn’t offer to do all the housecleaning, or that I somehow object to the act. It’s just that my wife and I define “clean” somewhat differently. But I soldiered on.
“Sure. I'll clean the house.”
"And when you “clean the house”, will it be clean? Or will it be “Mom Clean”?”
And truth be told, I was dead in the water.
"Mom Clean” is an expression in our house that denotes the highest possible standard of cleanliness. It goes by degrees – first there is “orderly”, then “tidy”, then “clean”, followed by “incredibly clean”, “impossibly clean”, “sterile”, “my God, you could eat off the floor behind the refrigerator clean” and then, ten times as clean as that, you finally get to “Mom Clean”.
I can’t do “Mom Clean”, and it’s not just because I’m lazy (which I am) or because I don’t care (which, okay). It’s a vision thing. Where my wife can clearly see dirt at a sub-atomic level, I can’t perceive dirt until you actually need equipment to move it.
There have been times (and you will think I am making this up, but I assure you I am not) when I have “cleaned “a room until it shone like the top of the Chrysler Building, and she has gone into that room and spent a full hour “finishing the job”.
She and I both knew there was no way I was going to clean the house well enough for her to be comfortable welcoming guests into it. Where I might look around and see a perfectly tidy room, she would spend the whole evening mortified at having brought our guests into a festering, putrid cesspool. So in issuing an invitation, I had committed her to a full day of housework.
There was nothing I could do but apologize, which I have done, am doing, and will continue to do until well into the New Year. And while I’m sure it will be a lovely party, and I do enjoy having my friends over, I’m not sure it will be worth it in the end.
So I’m going to have to remember never to make plans without talking to her first. I can do that. It’s not so hard.
And really, a good place to start would be to tell her about the folks who are coming for dinner tonight.
This feature: From Nils Ling’s book Truths and Half Truths. A collection of some of his most memorable and hilarious columns. Write to him at RR #9, 747 Brackley Point Road, Charlottetown, PE, C1E 1Z3.
