A Good Reason to Give up Housework

Okay, this is a true story. It involves me and housework so I have to make the truestatement because no one would believe me otherwise and sluf this off as total fiction.

It was late and I was ironing. I think that was my first mistake. I hate ironing, that’s why I procrastinate till the last minute! Puts me in really bad mood. The only hot thing I want to handle at two AM is a cup of cocoa or a man and we all know the first is a whole lot less trouble but not as much fun.

     And I was contemplating that very thing when my sleeping cat on the back of the sofa jumped up, every strand of fur straight out. Cat goes porcupine. Guess the ironing gig was too much for him too.

     “Hey,” I grumped. “I can be domestic.”

His eyes glowed, whiskers twitching, tail like one of those baby bottle scrubbers. Pixel-the-plumb jumped from the couch and tore for the steps as my gaze connected with...something in the window. Something in a fedora and double-breasted coat and Tommy gun slug on shoulder. See, this is what I get for ironing! Bad karma!

He smiled a gotcha smile that says hope your will’s in order, dollface!

What the hell! Maybe one of the neighbors? Except I can’t look through my neighbors and this guy was...smoky. Do I flee or face the music...or in this case the Tommy gun?

Hey, I had an iron! I knew the darn thing had to be good for something and I was not about to let Al Capone or one of his cohorts threaten my domicile. I watched Game Of Thrones, I can do the take charge thing. Iron...my weapon of choice. Right?

Wrong! I tore up the stairs and dove under the covers.

“You’re cold,” my dh grumbled.

“There’s a ghost downstairs.”

“Feed him your meatloaf that’ll kill him.”

“I left the iron on.”

“Yeah, right.”

It did not speak well of my housekeeping skills when the dh believed the ghost part more than the ironing part.

Peeking out from the covers I spotted...nothing. See, the ghost-spotting was all a part of my imagination probably brought on by drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade at two AM. Had to do something to motivate the ironing gig. Putting feet on the floor I slunk out of bed, continued onto the family room, flipped off the iron and turned to face...the smoke! “Go away!”

“The flowers need watering.”

“Huh?” Did one argue with a Tommy gun? No! “What flowers?”

“The corner marigolds.” The smoke sat on the couch armrest. “My Ruby and I used to meet there. Up until now you kept them real nice but you haven’t watered for three days and they’re drooping.”

“I had to iron.”

“Yeah, right.”

“So I’m not Martha Stewart. So shoot me.” Bad, bad choice of words! New conversation needed fast! “Who’s Ruby?”

“My dish. I ran hooch in prohibition. Ruby’s daddy was the sheriff. We used to meet at that corner where your flower bed is till her daddy caught us and shot me deader than Lincoln. I visit, remembering the good times. But those flowers don’t look too good to me, girly girl.”

“Can’t you water them?”

He growled, his fedora slipping forward, his brow furrowing.

“Right. Water. Are you going to pester me every time I forget?”

He shifted his gun to the other shoulder. “Are you going to find my Ruby?”

It was late, I was tired and this could happen again...except for the ironing. I was so giving that up. “I’ll do some digging at the library, local stuff. Then you’ll leave me alone?”

He laughed and faded toward the window. “See you later, dollface.”