There was an old radio show called “Fibber McGee and Molly,” and in that show was a running gag about an over-crammed hall closet. Just as Fibber McGee opened the closet door, his wife Molly would yell “Don’t open that door, McGee!” Of course, she always warned just a moment too late. McGee would open that door and everything would come tumbling out. I was way too young for the radio show. But it did run on TV for a while. The Dowager Duchess liked to often use the line in our house when I was a kid.
|DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR, MCGEE!
FLAMENQUÍN. THIS WAS A VERY EASY CLEAN-UP AFTER A DINNER FOR TWO.
One of my few (very, very few) quirks is a need to have everything appear on the surface to be completely in order. Furniture polished. Stray items put away. Cushions straightened. Chairs aligned. It’s very telling and says quite a bit about my personality in general. Publicly, I smile. A lot. Even when I’m miserable. Privately some days, not so much. The living room and kitchen are usually in perfect order, just in case someone stops by unexpectedly. My bedroom, now that no one ever stops by there unexpectedly, is a little disordered, but never appallingly so and can be picked up in a matter of minutes. But, no matter how perfect it all appears to be on the surface, I have always had one drawer or closet that’s a complete disaster area. I have to fight to get it open. I have to shove things back in as they fall out. Then I close the door again and no one knows the truth. Everything appears to be in order. No problems here. Or anywhere. As I said, very telling.
My sister was nothing like me when she was young. Well, yes, her closets and dresser drawers (all of them) were a complete disaster. But she had no qualms about letting people see her mess. Her bedroom floor was covered with clothes, pillows, bedspreads, books, magazines. You name it. She would simply kick a trail through the detritus. San Geraldo was, I’ve been told, the same way as a boy. Not much has changed.
Following behind San Geraldo in the kitchen (or anywhere else, to be honest) always reminds me of Molly McGee’s warning. Don’t open that door! No matter how under control he manages to be while preparing a meal the “S#@t” always hits the fan in the final few minutes. When dinner is served, he closes the door and leaves the mess behind. The mess doesn’t really bother him in the least; he’s just worried the cats will get into it. When the meal is over, I always know what’s going to hit me when I open that door. And yet, like Fibber McGee, I open it anyway. I then walk around the house, checking for stray cereal bowls, plates, and silverware. San Geraldo usually has a collection in his office. But I don’t mind at all. If it weren’t for San Geraldo, I’d be living on frozen pizza and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.
|LAST NIGHT, SAN GERALDO’S FIRST FLAMENQUÍN WITH PORK INSTEAD OF CHICKEN.|
|SO WORTH THE CLEAN-UP.|