No More Mr. Nice Guy

That’s it. I’m done. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I’ll tell you why. Joy and I are pretty traditional when it comes to divvying up household duties. She looks after most of the indoor chores we associate with June Cleaver, Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart. I’m in charge of the guy stuff: grass, snow, gardening and minor repairs. But I’m not Mike Holmes and am usually quick to call in someone who knows what he’s doing.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like there’s an impenetrable Berlin Wall separating our two universes. Joy often weighs in on what plants should go where and how that shrub should be trimmed. She has a better eye for that sort of thing. Dinner is entirely Joy country. As for breakfast and lunch, I can open a container of yogurt or fry an egg with the best of them. So, domestic-duty-wise, we’re more like two different planets whose orbits occasionally intersect. Often with unpredictable results.

It was one of those unpredictable moments that has inspired this little narrative.

When we bought this house it came with a finished walk-out and enough very light (emphasize “very”) carpet to cover half the Rogers Centre outfield. And that carpet is unsurpassed in its ability to showcase every ground-in Dorito dropping and juice-box dribble that little guys leave behind. We love our grandchildren to bits, but kids are kids and keeping it presentable is an ongoing project that has found its way into Joy’s portfolio. But it’s not a labour of love.

So a few weeks ago, with Joy out for the afternoon, and having decided to do something nice for her, I lugged the old canister vacuum cleaner downstairs, put on my Mr. Nice Guy pants and got busy.

While not physically taxing, vacuuming that amount of carpet is tedious work. At about the halfway point with my distracted mind rushing off madly in all directions – from yesterday’s Blue Jays game to DJT’s latest rant and all points in between – something began nibbling at the edges of my consciousness. What’s that smell?

With my nostril wings twitching like some feral creature sensing danger, it came to me. Grass! Freshly cut grass. That made no sense. And then I saw it. A green blob the size of a small dinner plate defiling my carpet. And an array of long matching green stripes the vacuum had left in its wake.

Shocked out of my reverie, I soon discovered the culprit. It was a palm-like floor plant with long fronds that, left untrimmed, cascade onto the floor. I had promised weeks earlier to give it a haircut, but hadn’t delivered on that promise and snared a few of those verdant appendages in the spinning beater bar and they began spilling their juices wherever the machine travelled.

I was frantic for a solution, but stain removal is not my strong suit and 911 seemed excessive so… Hello, Google. No luck there. Time was running out. Joy would be home soon, and I was in no mood for the sackcloth and ashes that might soften any emergent mariticidal urges.

Ah, baby wipes! Yes! I’d seen Joy use them. I dabbed and dabbed like some maniacal bingo addict. I’d been told that wiping makes things worse, but dabbing wasn’t working either.

I decided to prostrate myself at my wife’s feet and beg for forgiveness. Assume the guise of a pathetic loser and only the hardest heart will fail to soften. I do it all the time and it works.

With nary an audible sigh, Joy took over the wipes. No cigar. The potions she stores in the laundry room were equally ineffective. There would be no easy DIY solution.

Stop dithering, George. This is not a life-altering decision. Talk to a professional. One quick call and I had a date with a young man with both the knowledge and the equipment to do the job.

He showed up on time and ninety minutes later, having done the entire carpet (no spot cleaning, thank you) was gone. Cautiously optimistic about the outcome, we still had to reserve judgment as the damp carpet had been declared a temporary no-fly zone.

When we got down there the next morning, we were thrilled. It looked brand new. Oh, if you got down on your knees, you might find the odd faded juice-box dribble, but you had to be almost looking through a microscope to spot them. A job well done. In the end, I was still out three hundred bucks and a lot of aggravation thanks to my good intentions gone awry. After all these years on the planet, you might think I’d learn. If it’s not in your wheelhouse, George, just don’t do it. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

Next time I’m tempted to do a good deed, I’ll hire a Boy Scout to do it for me.