“I’ve got to run. We have guests coming, and you know what that means.”

I did know what my friend Joe meant. He and his wife, Marcie, would have to spend two solid days vacuuming, dusting, polishing, sweeping, raking, mowing, window washing and tub scrubbing so their guests wouldn’t think they were disgusting slobs.

“I know,” I said as I walked Joe to his car. “Why can’t people stay home and let us live in our own filth the way we were meant to?”

Sue’s head popped up from the tulip bed. “Because we’re not cavemen,” she snapped. “We’re human. At least I am. Besides, we do not live in filth, except for your office and bathroom. Bye, Joe.”

“Ever thought of wearing a bell around your neck?” I asked. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that. It’s scary. Besides, I’m right. All we do is clean for two days before guests come by.”

“And why is that? Because you leave a debris trail every time you walk through the house. You walk through the kitchen with your muddy shoes, your dust cloud settles on everything, your laundry turns to compost before I can pick it up and put it in the hamper. I shouldn’t wash your clothes, I should spread them on the garden. Sometimes I want to call FEMA and see if they can do anything about the havoc you leave in your path. And ‘we’ don’t clean for two days. I do it all.”