Anyone who knows me well would not use the phrase “detail oriented” to describe my personality. “Lack of attention to detail” would be more on the mark. But having one’s minivan “detailed,” I mean really, truly detailed…well, it has shifted my entire paradigm on life.
I’ve shared with you all the Disneyland Theory: if something is impeccably clean to begin with, the better part of our natures want it to stay that way. Well, I can’t say too much for the house, but the minivan has suddenly transformed from “2 ton health violation” to an “inner sanctum.”
When describing our marriage, I have often joked that if my husband is the Felix, then I am, sadly, the Oscar in the relationship. (In a very lovable, endearing way, mind you.) Just to prove what a Felix he can be, when he was a teenager and his mother was overwhelmed with the messy house her large brood inevitably left in its wake, she would lock herself in my husband’s room, the cleanest room in the house, to lie down and think. A place for everything, and everything in it’s place: That was a teenage boy’s motto. (I know, I lucked out, right?)
Well, I must be a bad influence, because yesterday I could only watch in that proverbial slow motion horror as my husband casually, willy-nilly, tossed a gum wrapper into the front cup holder! This would’ve been nothing a few days ago, but now that the entire interior of my Odessey has been steam cleaned and scrubbed with some sort of off-the-market cleaning solution (I still don’t know how they got those stains out!) it was a mark of desecration.
“Nooooooooooooo! If you love me at all, you will note and use the designated trash receptacle!” I overreacted. It was a complete role reversal. He was only too happy to comply, pleased to see I was finally taking pride in ownership.
Soon, I’m going to be like that mom in those commercials: swathed in a plush bathrobe while reclining in the back seat of my minivan, sans the kids, watching some chick-flick and nibbling on dark chocolates. You know, “mommy’s mivivan me-time.”
But before I morph into someone who indulges in “minivan spa days,” how much do you think the boys down at the car wash would charge to come here and detail the entire house? I’m not talking about maids. No, no, no. I’m talking about getting the house detailed. You know, with 12 dozen rags, 1,000 Q-Tips, and that off-the-market cleaner they’re using down there? Someone to suck up all the lint from under my refrigerator and then condition the grill. Someone to take a toothbrush to my baseboards and then steam blast them until they glow. I want soap scum to be afraid of my shower doors.
I could even hang the tree-shaped, vanilla scented air fresheners from my chandeliers. Sure, it will probably require that we all evacuate the house for at least 24 hours, but that’s okay.
We can live in the minivan.