What? I Said "Vacuum"

The front door swung open, and a pile of bags staggered in. I pulled out an earbud and said, "I swept the floors, like you asked."

The living load of groceries froze mid-step. My mother's head poked out from behind the plastic lumps. "What?"

"I said, 'I swept the floors'," I repeated, returning my eyes back to my book.

My name came out of her mouth in a long, drawn out wail that made me grit my teeth in annoyance. I hate when she says my name that way. With an irritated sigh, I flick my eyes back up to hers.

"I said 'vacuum'. I wanted you to vacuum the floors," she cried, almost in tears now. "They don't get clean enough when you just swept them. Now, I'll have to do them all over again on top of everything else I have to do."

She hurried into the kitchen with the wobbly tower of food; and I follow her. I should know by now to just avoid her when she's in this mood; but I still close my long-awaited book and shuffle into the kitchen where she's continuing her rant.

"All I asked you to do was one little thing while I was at the store, and you couldn't do it right. What does that tell me? I only have two hours before the company comes, you know. I had hoped you could have helped me out a little."

"Mom, it's not like we're having someone special over. It's just your kids. They've lived here; they know what the house looks like, clean or dirty."

"I don't care. The house can still be clean for them," she said, starting off again.

I stand against the wall of the kitchen, leaning my head back. I'm half mad at her for making a big deal out of nothing and half mad at myself for making a stupid mistake. I can't help it if I didn't get the housewife genes that my sister did. So I still need told to clean something instead of just seeing that it needs cleaned, what's the big deal? I don't get why every room in the house needs to be spotless when it's just my brother and his wife coming for dinner.

"Ok, so what do you want to do now?" I cut in on her.

"Nothing," she sighed. "Just go read your book."

I throw my hands up in frustration and stomp back to my chair. Earbuds back in, book open to the right page, I wash my hands of the whole cleaning situation. I'm still angry though, and the words on the page just won't come into focus. I wind up reading the same sentence three times. It can't be helped. I snap the book shut with a bang. The floors need vacuumed.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and doesn't understand why the whole house needs cleaned when company only sees two or three rooms.

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