The other night, I called an important meeting with Dan to discuss our conversion to FlyLadyism.



You see, I’ve decided that together we’re going to stay out of CHAOS (that’s Can’t Have Any One Over Syndrome), and we’re going to do it as FlyLady intends – fifteen cheerful minutes at a time. So, I signed up for FlyLady’s millions of daily emails, and in her welcome form letter, she said, among other things, that she was so proud of me. I must admit that I felt a little proud too, and right away felt motivated to do whatever FlyLady said.

Dan is considerably less enamored of FlyLady and spent most of our housework meeting lounging way back on the couch and looking at me incredulously. His lip curled up, and he appeared to be constantly on the verge collapsing into hysterical guffaws. In fact, he did giggle a little when I paused a moment while explaining the Morning Routine in order to search FlyLady.net for the FlySpot, which, despite how it may sound, has nothing to do with sex, but instead contains the details the Weekly Zone Missions.

“Now,” I said, getting back to the agenda once I'd located said FlySpot, “after the bed is made, we swish the bathroom.”

“Swish?”

I pursed my lips disapprovingly. “Rub down the sink, and then do the top of the toilet and around the edges.” I moved my hand in a circular motion to illustrate the process.

“Fine,” Dan sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Then,” I continued, “every few days when the toilet gets skuzzy, put one of those scrubber things on the toilet wand and swish the bowl.”

Dan stared at me blankly. “Scrubber things?” he asked.

“Ye-ah,” I said. “You know, one of those Clorox sponges I got to replace the toilet brush?” I pantomimed clicking a scrubber onto the handle.

Vacant stare from my spouse. No response.

“Um, Dan? Have you ever cleaned the toilet?”

After a few seconds of trying to think up ways to get out of admitting that this was the case, he laughed sheepishly. I stared at him open-mouthed and wondered how it is possible that he has never, ever cleaned the toilet in our almost five years of living together; and for that matter, in the whole rest of his life. Clearly, his parents and I are guilty of some major enabling.

“Look,” he said finally, pointing at me accusingly, “when you blog about this, you had better make fun of yourself, too.”