Far better than most women.

My Italian true love underestimates my talents. As a house cleaner. Really, I’m one of the best. When I want to be. She thinks I need the weekly services of a hard-driven cleaning lady. That only women know how to clean a house properly and thoroughly.  That’s bunk, of course.  When I set my mind to it, I can do almost anything. Certainly, cleaning house far better than most cleaning ladies. Thing is, my true love thinks that every book and CD in my vast collections needs to be dusted regularly. Individually. Like several times a year. My true love also would have the books neatly arranged on the shelves. Based on height of the books. The taller ones on the left. And getting smaller as we move to the right.  Which seems silly and unnecessary. Meanwhile, I admit to having a little bit of dust under the bed. Occasionally.  Even when cleaning ladies come in. So it’s their fault. Not mine.   The cleaning ladies also tend to mop the floors. I get on my hands and knees. And scrub. With a brush. Vigorously. Adroitly. One could eat off a Broede-cleaned floor. Though my true love wouldn’t do it. Anyway, I’m supposed to be taught the art/craft of housecleaning. By cleaning ladies. Thing is, I suspect I could teach them more than they could teach me. If only I put forth the effort. The same sort of gumption that I put into my daily writing and my daily physical exercise routine. The fact is, I have the talent. The only question is, do I have the time? Tell you what. I’m gonna make the time. To become one of the world’s best male house cleaners.  Far better than most women. –Jim Broede