Wordle of the day – done. News – read. Random fluff on the internet – perused. Coffee – inhaled. Belly – satiated. Cat – entertained, now sleeping off a vigorous game of fetch.
Shoot, I can’t think of anything else to fritter away my time on. Guess I have no choice but to check out today’s To Do List. I trundle over to my clipboard on the kitchen island and stare at the lengthy list. Sigh. New home, same old chores.
I frown as I read the first item: “Wash one window.” Really? Why would I start my list with that gem?
There must be something less onerous I could do. Let’s see –
“Sweep and wash floors,” a/k/a full-body work out. No, it’s too early to be on my hands and knees, scrubbing away.
“Clean toilets, showers and sinks.” I don’t think so. See above.
“Return emails.” Another nope. Brain are cells not fully engaged yet.
“Fix Dell computer.” I let out a big belly laugh. As if. I now officially loathe, despise and hate Windows. My apologies Apple for having cheated on you with a bloated, crash-laden, non- booting, blue-screen mutant. It won’t happen again, I swear.
No, I put window washing as Numero Uno because the blight of spotted, dirty windows has finally exceeded the reward for procrastination.
Who shall be the recipient of today’s beneficence? I spin around in my living room. The sliding doors onto the back deck are passable, having had a speedy wash last week. But the two windows on either side of the front door, now they bug me (literally) every time I open or close them.
I decide to tackle the one on the right, as the other has a dining room table below it, and I’m too lazy to move it at this hour. Speaking of time, how long have I dithered away already? I glance at my watch: 8:32 a.m. Shoot – I better get moving before the sun turns this house into a scorching sauna.
Fortunately, my window-washing supplies are conveniently located just to the left of today’s makeover recipient, in the kitchen dresser. It’s a solid-wood, faux mid-century piece that was intended for my bedroom but looked awkwardly large in the small space. So, into the kitchen it came and, somehow, instantaneously filled up with tea towels, plastic containers, cooking tools, cleaning cloths, the lot. Apparently, all kitchens need their own dresser.
I study my adversary for this morning: a relatively small, sliding window four feet up the wall. Should be a straightforward and easy job. I smile. Maybe window washing won’t be so bad today. I bet I’ll have this task crossed off in no time. I haul out my step ladder and take a closer look.
Uggh!!
Perched atop the dust bunnies, dead moths and other unmentionables clogging the bottom rail is a large, black beetle, skinny legs raised up to the heavens in classic bug death pose.
Sigh. Clearly the previous owners were not into window cleaning.
It’s generally not the dirt on the window itself that is the issue (as long as you’re not picky about streaks), but the detritus that accumulates in the runners that’s the challenge. At my old house, I washed the windows in the living room every other week, which ensured the accumulated dirt and deceased insects were kept to a manageable minimum.
Maybe I should start by cleaning the screen instead. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Dead bugs can wait. I study the thick layer of grime and cat hair blanketing the mesh. Ewe. There’s only one way to return this eyesore to its former glory – a rendezvous with Madame Garden Hose.
I am relieved when the screen lifts up and out easily. It’s not a given here. At my old house, I had one that refused to pop out, even when confronted with the determined, strong arms of my ex-Marine dive buddy.
Grabbing a rag from under the kitchen sink, I head out the door, gripping the frame between my index finger and thumb, careful not to accidentally rub against the grungy grime. A quick skip down the stairs and across the small concrete pad under my raised house takes me to my hose, which is haphazardly piled at the top of my driveway.
Holding the small, scummy screen away from me, I launch a strong stream of water through the mesh, sending a black river of soot coursing down the white concrete. A gentle glide of my cleaning cloth clears the remaining grime, turning my pale grey rag into a blotchy Rorschach test.
After a final rinse and shake, I lean my nice spotless screen against a concrete pillar to dry. Even the white vinyl frame is glistening. Now if only the glass panes would be as easy to clean as these “mosquito nets,” as they are referred to here.
Before heading upstairs to create a tableau of streaks worthy of Jackson Pollock, I hold up my cleaning rag and peer at two dark, streaky splotches. I blink my eyes several times – I swear I see a duo of grotesque, bloated scorpions emerging from the dirt blots.
Gasp, my imagination needs to escape the demonic, domestic pest scene.
Maybe if those stupid, predatory arachnids wouldn’t sting my finger with their pointy, curved tails and then leap onto the back of my shoulder after I scream and jump, perhaps I wouldn’t be conjuring up unmentionable fiends.
Note to those contemplating living in Paradise – always turn your light on and look before changing the garbage pail liner.
Sigh, I can’t postpone the inevitable any more. As, I trudge back upstairs, I have a brain wave. Maybe I can brush those unmentionables out with my dust-pan broom without actually having to see them.
I climb the step ladder and slide the left pane behind the right, taking care to avert my eyes from the horrors in the track. Leaning back as far as my outstretched arm will allow me, I tip the edge of the brush into the runner and flick at the large black beetle. It hits the edge with a light clinking sound before sailing down outside, hopefully lost to nature for good.
One dead bug down.
The remaining debris brushes out with a dozen or so more snaps of my wrist. I finish off with several swipes of a fresh, damp cleaning cloth and am rewarded with a pristine, white track. I shut the window and eye the right panel, then freeze.
Uh oh.
I forgot it’s a fixed pane. Only the left side moves. Shoot. How do I clean the right runner, and more importantly, how do I clean the outside of the window?
I open the left side again and peer out. It’s a long, long way down. I shake my head as I realize that my extension ladder would be too short to reach up this far, and, more importantly, even if it were long enough, I have zero, zip, nil desire to be perched on a ladder that could reach that high.
What to do?
I take a closer look at my adversary. In the middle, angled into tabs tucked into the fixed pane, are two screws – one going into the header and one into the sill. I bet if I take out my trusty screw driver and remove those screws, the right side will become mobile.
Padding over to the second bedroom (though calling it a “bedroom” may be a bit of a misnomer – I have seen bigger powder rooms), I give the closet door – one of three barn doors in this house – a light push. It rolls effortlessly to the right. Barn doors are great for small spaces since you don’t need swing space. The only disadvantage is that they take up precious wall realty, which if one wall is dedicated to the closet door, a second to a sliding glass door, a third to an entrance door, and the fourth to a sofa bed, no walls are left for a dresser, TV and other commonly found appointments. But I digress.
My environmentally-sealed (and hopefully corrosion proof) Rigid tool box is buried behind a host of treasures: a sun umbrella, a portable fan, numerous wetsuits, beach towels and a couple small laundry baskets. As I unload this jenga puzzle, I make a mental note to add, “Organize guest bedroom closet,” to my To Do List.
Once I extricate my tool box, I pull out a handful of screw drivers and return to the window. As I am an expert at stripping screws, especially the cheap ones found here, I want to make doubly sure that I am using the right-sized tool. I could use my new impact driver, but I am even better at stripping screws with a motorized tool than I am with an old-fashioned manual device.
The first screw driver I try fits beautifully. Sweet. I start at the top and begin turning. It takes a firm grip and some brawn to compel the screw to rotate. Eventually, an inch protrudes, but it feels like there is a lot more screw left. I turn and turn and turn some more. Two inches. My hand starts to get crampy. Turn, turn, turn. It’s a never- ending merry-go-round. Isn’t there a song with those lyrics? Oh, I remember, “To everything (turn, turn, turn), there is a season (turn, turn, turn) . . .”
Finally, after three inches of hand-numbing turning, the screw comes free. I hold up the darn thing and gawk at its colossal proportions. Guess the installers wanted to ensure that the window would never, ever budge, not even in a category five hurricane.
I head into the kitchen for some relief. Dealing with dead bugs and the world’s longest screw requires reinforcements. I open a bottle of beer and pour a third of it into a glass. I cap the bottle, saving the remainder for two future days in need of buttressing.
A sip. Ahhh. A fine IPA. Well, not exactly fine, but compared to the swill available here, it’s not so bad. I had brought back a grapefruit IPA kit from the States and doubled the grapefruit peel to give it that bright, citrusy taste I like, but instead I ended up with a bland, generic IPA. I take another sip. You know, after cleaning out filth and unmentionables, I think this is one mighty fine beverage.
One last swig and I am fortified, ready to tackle screw number two. Turn, turn, turn. “A time to be born, a time to die. A time to plant, a time to reap.” Turn, turn, turn. “A time of love, A time of hate. A time of war, a time of peace.” Turn, turn, turn.
I shake my hand. I need to build up some arm muscles. By the time I am done, I bet my biceps will give Schwarzenegger’s a run for the money. Turn, turn, turn.
Like the first, the bottom screw finally comes out after three long, tiring inches are set free. The moment of truth has come. Will Mr. Right budge? I grab the leading edge of the pane and pull it to the left. Success – liberation achieved!!
I glance over at the far rail. Gross! It’s even dirtier than on the right. How is that possible? And what’s that long, brown thing laying in the outside groove?!?
My body recoils as my brain catches up with my eyes, sending me careening off the step ladder. I stumble into the kitchen and guzzle down the last bit of beer.
Re-fortified, I grab my dust pan and broom. As I scoot the step ladder to the right, I inhale deeply. I take a tentative step up before forcing myself to glance at the gestalt in the groove. My heart starts to pound, and my head gets woozy.
Some deep, ancestral instinct takes over and without thinking, my hand snaps the brush. The dried-out, gecko carcass flies out the window.
I greedily gulp several hot, muggy lungfuls of air, not realizing I had been holding my breath. After a few more deep inhales, the pounding in my chest goes from jackhammer to bouncy ball.
Having had enough of this B-movie horror flick, “Dawn of the Desiccated Dead,” I begin flicking out the dead moths, bugs and other abominations willy nilly, followed by frenzied swipes of my damp cloth, finally ridding the rail of the remaining muck. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Now, comes the part that I suck at: actually washing the windows. I have yet to figure out a streak-free method. I’ve tried squeegees, newspaper, vinegar solutions, lint-free cloths – you name it, I’ve tried it. And what reward have I had for all my efforts? Lovely, smudgy windows, especially when the sun shines in, which is nearly all the time.
Oh well, I guess clear and streaky is better than obscured and spotted. I dampen the special lime, micro-fiber, window-cleaning cloth I bought on Amazon and begin scrubbing. It turns a deep forest green after just half a pane. I rinse it out and continue, wiping and rinsing until all the dirt is gone. A few swipes with a silky blue, anti- streak cloth finishes off any remaining moisture.
Standing back, I examine my handiwork and frown. With the outside still slathered in dust and dirt, it’s impossible to tell if the window is clean and streak free. Back to work I go.
I crack open the left pane, stick my arm out and clean the half I can reach. After rinsing my now smokey-topaz cloth, I scoot the other pane in front so I can scour the remaining half with my other arm. Success! The left half of my window is now fully clean, inside and out.
Another quick trip to the sink, and I am ready to tackle pane number two. I wipe the right half of my formerly-sessile foe, clearing it of dust and grime. I feel a burst joy as I realize the end is in sight – only half a pane left!
As I scoot Mr. Right in front of the clean pane to expose his left half for cleaning, I feel a sudden bump as he jolts to a standstill. I look over – the window latch on the left edge of the back pane is blocking him from passing in front.
Crap.
These windows are not ambidextrous. In my last house, I installed windows that opened either to the right or the left, allowing me to adjust how I wanted the breeze to blow through my house. Those latches were small and fastened in the center allowing the panes to freely pass each other in both directions.
This latch, on the other hand, is industrial-sized and designed for security, securely clipping into the left-hand jamb of the window frame. I guess that makes sense given there are no bars on the window, but it doesn’t help my house-keeping.
Grumble, grumble.
I move the front pane back to the right and stick my arm out as far out as possible. I manage to clean two-thirds of the window, but the rest is beyond my reach. I need a longer arm.
Standing back a few feet, I stare at the silly thing. A thick, vertical band of light brown haze covers a third of the pane. But the remainder of the window is completely clean, or nearly so.
Streaks.
Oh well, one can’t expect perfection in Paradise.
Having had enough of this tiresome endeavor, I decide it’s time to return to screwing, alas not the pleasant kind. After six inches of turn, turn, turn, both screws are finally firmly re-embedded in the frame.
I glance at my watch. 10:24 a.m. Nearly two hours for one window! Only sixteen left to go.
And, oh, I better not forget to retrieve the screen from downstairs. But I’ll deal with that later.
I think it’s time for a nap now. Only one slight problem, the Byrd’s song, “Turn! Turn! Turn!,” is on a continuous loop in my head. “To everything – turn, turn, turn; There is a season – turn, turn, turn. . .” is accompanied by visions of dead beetles, moths, geckos and a scorpion thrown in for good measure.
Come to think of it, perhaps it’s time to check off another miserable task of my To Do List. Maybe I’ll go and clean the toilets. At least I won’t be haunted by the desiccated dead there.
© Sandra Y. K. Loder 2022
Originally published April 24, 2022
