Hair of the Dog
November 1, 2000
The tragic flaw with dogs is dog hair. Our dog Eugene leaves a trail of little black reminders wherever he goes—I actually found a dog hair in the microwave last week and another in a bread pan I haven’t used in ten years. If you vacuumed our living room right now, you could pick up enough black dog hair to make yourself a dachshund Halloween costume. In fact, you could probably jut roll around our basement and come up covered with enough hair that you could tell people you’re a werewolf and they’d believe you.
So last week, here comes my daughter-in-law with my first grandchild. To my way of thinking, she is the perfect baby girl. I wanted everything to be just right for her. I washed sheets and bedspreads, dragged the high chair out of the attic in the garage, single-handedly, which involved climbing down the ladder with it as far as I could and dropping it, covered with dust, on the top of the seat of the motor scooter.
However, when she got here, to my acute dismay I realized I’d forgotten to vacuum and that the baby was crawling and that her pink tights would be soon covered with three inches of fuzz.
You know how some sons marry someone just like their mom and some sons don’t? I would take two hundred three-year-olds on a picnic with two peanut butter sandwiches and a bag of carrot sticks before I’d vacuum. I can think of a million things to do before getting out the old hair-sucker: quilt, scrapbook, watch videos. Organize pencils.
Apparently my charmingly casual approach to homecare wasn’t something my son liked. Or maybe he was just lucky enough to meet someone who likes to be able to breathe while they’re in the house. My daughter-in-law is a very good housekeeper.
So, I walked in the door with everyone in tow and realized that I needed an emergency vacuuming team.
Now, the other horror in my life is that my husband doesn’t fully realize what a mess I am. Like an alcoholic, I’m good at covering my tracks. Unless you get down on the floor, you don’t realize how awful it is. Since this was an emergency though, I had to ask him to vacuum the living room and the couch.
Wow, what a mistake! Boy, if you want to retain their respect, don’t show your husband the credit card bill and never ask him to clean up after you. Never mind that his office has so much stuff in it that spontaneous catalogue combustion is a real possibility. Never mind that you can’t see the floor of his truck. Never mind that he wears the same shirt three times before he puts it in the wash. Never mind… He was pretty shocked.
We have one of those vacuum cleaners where you fill the tank with water and vacuum all the stuff into it and dump it down the toilet. It’s kind of exhilarating because you can see everything you’ve vacuumed up and you feel very productive. Or you do if you vacuum. Anyway, he got deep into the heart of the couch, behind the cushions and he actually hollered. “Liz, come here and look at this!”
The thirty pounds I’ve gained, all the nights we’ve had cereal for dinner, my snoring during Sacrament meeting, he’s never gotten upset with me before. I was kind of surprised. It was like having a fake fur couch underneath the real one.
Okay, so you’re probably never going to want to come over to my house again. I just hope my daughter-in-law will bring the baby back.
I’ve considered getting rid of the dog but Eugene is my best friend. He cuddles up next to me whenever I sit down. He walks with me no matter what the weather. Grandchildren are going to grow up and go away—they’re not going to want to see their grandma forever. But a dog, feed him and he’s yours.
We could get all hard wood floors. We could go to a hotel whenever anyone visits. We could build another house and keep it for just when we have company. We could seal off rooms and open them only for the grandbabies.
Or I could vacuum.
The thought just makes me cringe.
Maybe we’ll just have to shop and eat out whenever they’re here!
The tragic flaw with dogs is dog hair. Our dog Eugene leaves a trail of little black reminders wherever he goes—I actually found a dog hair in the microwave last week and another in a bread pan I haven’t used in ten years. If you vacuumed our living room right now, you could pick up enough black dog hair to make yourself a dachshund Halloween costume. In fact, you could probably jut roll around our basement and come up covered with enough hair that you could tell people you’re a werewolf and they’d believe you.
So last week, here comes my daughter-in-law with my first grandchild. To my way of thinking, she is the perfect baby girl. I wanted everything to be just right for her. I washed sheets and bedspreads, dragged the high chair out of the attic in the garage, single-handedly, which involved climbing down the ladder with it as far as I could and dropping it, covered with dust, on the top of the seat of the motor scooter.
However, when she got here, to my acute dismay I realized I’d forgotten to vacuum and that the baby was crawling and that her pink tights would be soon covered with three inches of fuzz.
You know how some sons marry someone just like their mom and some sons don’t? I would take two hundred three-year-olds on a picnic with two peanut butter sandwiches and a bag of carrot sticks before I’d vacuum. I can think of a million things to do before getting out the old hair-sucker: quilt, scrapbook, watch videos. Organize pencils.
Apparently my charmingly casual approach to homecare wasn’t something my son liked. Or maybe he was just lucky enough to meet someone who likes to be able to breathe while they’re in the house. My daughter-in-law is a very good housekeeper.
So, I walked in the door with everyone in tow and realized that I needed an emergency vacuuming team.
Now, the other horror in my life is that my husband doesn’t fully realize what a mess I am. Like an alcoholic, I’m good at covering my tracks. Unless you get down on the floor, you don’t realize how awful it is. Since this was an emergency though, I had to ask him to vacuum the living room and the couch.
Wow, what a mistake! Boy, if you want to retain their respect, don’t show your husband the credit card bill and never ask him to clean up after you. Never mind that his office has so much stuff in it that spontaneous catalogue combustion is a real possibility. Never mind that you can’t see the floor of his truck. Never mind that he wears the same shirt three times before he puts it in the wash. Never mind… He was pretty shocked.
We have one of those vacuum cleaners where you fill the tank with water and vacuum all the stuff into it and dump it down the toilet. It’s kind of exhilarating because you can see everything you’ve vacuumed up and you feel very productive. Or you do if you vacuum. Anyway, he got deep into the heart of the couch, behind the cushions and he actually hollered. “Liz, come here and look at this!”
The thirty pounds I’ve gained, all the nights we’ve had cereal for dinner, my snoring during Sacrament meeting, he’s never gotten upset with me before. I was kind of surprised. It was like having a fake fur couch underneath the real one.
Okay, so you’re probably never going to want to come over to my house again. I just hope my daughter-in-law will bring the baby back.
I’ve considered getting rid of the dog but Eugene is my best friend. He cuddles up next to me whenever I sit down. He walks with me no matter what the weather. Grandchildren are going to grow up and go away—they’re not going to want to see their grandma forever. But a dog, feed him and he’s yours.
We could get all hard wood floors. We could go to a hotel whenever anyone visits. We could build another house and keep it for just when we have company. We could seal off rooms and open them only for the grandbabies.
Or I could vacuum.
The thought just makes me cringe.
Maybe we’ll just have to shop and eat out whenever they’re here!
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