“Honey, you need to pick up your shoes you left in the living room, dining room, bedroom, kitchen and by the back door. The maids are coming in the morning and I don't want them to think we’re pigs,” I say as I gather my jacket, a sweater, a coffee cup, an empty Girl Scout cookie box, two pairs of gloves and head to the hall closet. “Oh, and don't forget your sweatshirt. Is it clean?”“Would it be clean if it’s on the floor?” he rolls his eyes.Every other week these wonderful little maidens come to freshen up my humble abode and I love it! The whole house smells of polish and spring flowers.“Luvy, don’t forget to turn on that air freshener by the fireplace.” And all those little marks on the carpet looks like someone vacuumed. Even the tile in the showers shine.Speaking of showers, “Here,” I say, holding a stack of fresh towels. “Put these in the baths and bring me the others.” I’ll stuff them, along with an assortment of phone cords, Kindle and I-Pad chargers, our daily collection of pills, the church bulletins I haven't read yet and my Sunday Missal, in the washer. Then I’ll dust off my hands with mild satisfaction and smile. I’m so clever.“Hey,” my husband yells from our bathroom. “What do you want me to do with this thing in the soap dish?”“It's soap, dear. Put it under the sink where the curlers are,” I yell back.“Curlers?” he muses.“Garage sale,” I answer.Back and forth we trot. My pin cushion from the end table because I thought I might hem a skirt (fat chance), the basket of pens, pencils, note pads, stray paper clips, a handful of receipts I stuffed in between the tape and address book, Super Glue, labels, outdated coupons and rubber bands I put in the oven along with a full year of Alaska, Weight Watcher, and The Food Network magazines – like I'm going to cook. I hope I remember where I put them.“Oh, and don't forget to wipe up that coffee you spilled on the kitchen floor,” I say passing him with an armload of laundry I’ll pitch in my closet to get out of the way.“It isn’t mine,” he says getting up off the floor. “I can see that it has cream in it so it must be yours!” You're kidding. I guess that means I have to clean it up.I roll up my yoga mat that the grandkids were using as part of their tent and put it under the plant stand by the window right next to the weights I don't have the strength to pick up. Yes, I might do yoga as soon as I can find time to relax and breathe.Speaking of concealment, “Did you cover the grill?”“They’re not doing the patio,” he argues. I give him a thoughtful look. “And take this dried-up plant out there, too. Put it around the side of the house so no one sees it.” I have such a time with my greenery.I get out the sweeper to vacuum up the leaves that came in with the puppy that spent the weekend with us. I move the box of his toys to under the bed where he and his master sleep when she’s here. I collect all the cordless phones and pass them to the man trying to sit in his recliner, holding the TV remote. Not yet, Big Boy. “Put these somewhere,” I say, dropping them in his lap.“Do we have enough phones?” my little communicator asks. His hand sweeps over them like Vanna White, giving me a visual as if I should be surprised. “Who has seven cordless phones plus the one on the kitchen wall AND the one in our bedroom? Why do we have cell phones? Are you afraid you’re going to miss a call? Isn’t that why we have voice mail?”“Hold, please. I’m trying to think of an answer for the first question you asked. What was it now?” I smile, juggling a stack of folded clothes to put away.“Hey, where do you think you’re going with that empty shoe box, mister?” I ask, checking the contents of my husband’s arms. “And that,” I point to the calculator and the extra batteries I left on the dining room table, my half-used bottle of lotion and my fingernail polish. “And that.” I pluck the magnifying mirror and tweezers from under the pile. “I need to do my mustache. I’ll take that magic marker unless you want to color those scratches on the coffee table. And that flip flop is still good, the dog only chewed off the one corner. I need those.”Then it’s over. Whew! Exhausted, we both drop down on the couch.“Why is there a sleeve of crackers behind this cushion? My husband asks, holding the crushed container up by the seam like it’s a dirty sock.“OK, that would be your son’s dog. You better check the spare bed under the pillow and in the corner by your desk.”“There,” I say, giving the rooms a final inspection. “Thank goodness, we’re done.”“Thank goodness, they only come every other week,” he says.Isn’t it wonderful to come home to a spotless house, smelling of freshness, all picked up and vacuumed?