Retired -- Will Work for Food

Sometimes, for no apparent reason, there are mornings like this – one person's up, the other one's down. On this particular morning, I was up. It was Max who still had to go to work. Putting on her coat, looking around, she had a dark look. "This place is a mess," she said.

I had to agree. But it was too dangerous to mention that at least half of it was hers. She looked over the top of her glasses. "Maybe we could hire a retiree for the day? To do a little neatening?" Her eyebrows bobbed a couple of times. "Yes?"

“A retiree would be much too expensive."

"If the retiree is smart, he'll work for food."

Then we went through the typical morning exit. A peck on the cheek. Adios, amigo. The door slam -- she always went away and came back with gusto -- and I was alone, thinking that a little elbow grease and a tidy house just might snip her funk in the bud and make things less treacherous for me. I rubbed my hands together and got to work.

A splash of water. A glob of soap. Dishwasher doing its thing. Spoons with spoons. Forks with forks. Oranges with oranges. Tangerines in a nice little pyramid. Cucumbers parallel in the crisper. Army-perfect in the pantry. Shipshape in the bathrooms. Very nice -- until I scanned the walls. Oh my...

We have a lot of art, and all of it hung like the Room at Arles -- nothing parallel. Not one frame straight. Getting this right, I knew, would be time-consuming but necessary for the Homes and Gardens look I was going for. I got my level and went to work putting the bubble in the middle, nudging, teasing, going wall to wall, room to room, until every piece of art was perfect. 

I looked around. All was neat as a pin, straight as an arrow. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out And there were still a few hours to go until Max got home. I puttered around, waiting to show her that a retiree had shown up and worked for food. 

It seemed to take forever -- the watched pot and all that – but I finally heard her car, then her voice ("I'm home!") and then the door slamming with its usual gusto, sending a minor quake through the walls, maybe 2.0 on the Richter. Frames tilted, tangerines rolled, apples mixed with oranges. She looked around. "I guess the retiree didn’t show up, today. Nothing looks any different."

"You might want to check the cucumbers." 

She did, and I ate well that night. But what a day. No matter how long you work, no matter how hard, things never work out exactly as you hope they will. Not even in retirement.