“My idea of superwomanman is someone who scrubs herhis own floors.”

–Bette Midler (b. 1945; renowned American actress, singer, and comedian; quote modified by a Midling but Aspiring Aerial Editor.)

From time to time, I start a post with “Listen up!” This time, I’m not going to do that because those who follow me know that I live on a mountain, so saying, “Listen up! I live on a mountain” would be totally unnecessary. But I do. Sometimes I say that I live on a mountain top. Well, actually, I don’t. Not exactly. But my property borders the George Washington National Forest which goes up to the top of the mountain and beyond. I live mid-way up the mountain, at about 1,650 feet, so it’s not as if I have an aerial habitation, though some folks seem to think that my head is up in the air. I assure you that it is not. I am simply too short, even if I stood on my tippy toes. Perhaps, if I climbed up Jacob’s ladder, I could stretch and achieve aerial status.

Either way, my mountain world is otherworldly. I know because I lived in Washington, DC, for 25 years before retreating here. In DC, I had wide city streets, a pristine patio, and urban elegance. In the Shenandoah Valley–at least on my mountain–I have a narrow dirt road with patches of gravel here and there that bespeak better days, a woodland yard that some folks call a “mountaintop oasis,” and a collection of dirt, dust, and debris hiding behind the mask of a rustic embrace. It’s a stark contrast here. Nature reigns supreme and shows herself more powerful than I. Truthfully, I spend so much time outdoors trying to keep Nature’s wilderness at bay that I sometimes wonder whether I need to spend more time indoors so that I can maintain my mountain abode according to the White-Glove Standard of Cleanliness.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that cleanliness has taken a back seat. It hasn’t. I write frequently about my frenzied strategies to stay on top of my home, indoors and out. No doubt you will remember “My Imaginary Guests,” “OHIO On My Mind,” and “Less Is Not Always More Until It Is.”

More recently, I’ve adopted some new tactics. I’ve started going through my home with a high-beam flashlight, shining it across the floors and baseboards, into corners and crevices, on top of furniture and behind, and even up and down the ceiling beams. I started doing that when I lost my Fitbit. (For a full account, see my “Finding Far More than My Fitbit.”) I discovered cobwebs lurking in unseen and unvisited spots. Their little filament lines looked like fluffy dust streamers. From time to time, I could even see anchor points attaching the web to the walls. I was absolutely flabbergasted because I thought that my home would have passed the White-Glove test. After all, I had cleaned the house thoroughly for my Thanksgiving guests. The month before, I had cleaned the house thoroughly for Veteran’s Day guests. I could keep rolling the calendar back, and I could keep talking about how I had  cleaned house for this occasion or for that occasion or for this guest or for that guest. But what good would that do me? I had shined a light, and I had seen those cobwebs. Since then, I have been sleuthing around with my flashlight regularly, day and night. It helps me discover all that is unseen before my guests see what I didn’t discover before their arrival.

I’ve implemented additional drastic cleaning methods, too. It broke my heart to break the pledge that I made to Pledge decades ago, but recently, I wrapped my arms (and my dustcloth) around Endust. Trust me. It doesn’t. End. Dust. I’m thinking about asking Pledge for a reconciliation.

I tried one more thing, too. I picked it up from my neighbor, who’s hot to buy my house when I put it on the market, especially now that he knows I don’t come with it. The first time that he visited me, he took his shoes off at the door. There he stood in his white socks.

“Say whaaat?”

“Don’t be ridiculoos! Of course, he was fully clothed. He only removed his shoes.  Geez!”

I am certain–in fact, I’ll wager my shoes–that it was just a ruse on Jordan’s part to see how dirty my floors were, especially since I tried my best to persuade him to put his shoes back on. Nope. He would not be swayed, though God knows how hard I tried. No luck. He kept right on walking around in his white socks. When he started to leave, I did not dare look at the bottom of his socks. I was fearful.

Since then, I have observed that he does not wear shoes in his home either. I realize, of course, that lots of people follow that practice. It makes good sense for hygiene and cleanliness. But like I said, in my efforts to keep my Nature wilderness tamed, I go in and out my door 20 times a day, if not more.

But Jordan’s cleanliness inspired me, so I decided to try his strategy. I bought myself a whole navigation of crocs so that I could slip them on quickly (going out) and slip them off easily (coming back in). It worked pretty well for me, but for the life of me, I could not train Ruby to slip into her four cute purple clogs (matching mine, of course). All the bones of Chewy would not sweeten the deal enough for her to wear them. That’s okay. I’m adaptable, so I decided to abandon Jordan’s shoeless method and get right down to the dirty: wear white socks indoors. I know dirt when I see it. When the bottoms of my socks are dirty, I know that my floors are dirty, and I know exactly what to do.

§ § § § §

Overall, these new cleaning initiatives have worked beautifully. However, every single time that I get close to achieving the White-Glove Standard of Cleanliness that I long for, mysterious things start to happen. They’re beginning to give me the fantods. Why would anyone or anything want to undermine my intentions and hard work? The really scary part about it all is that I never see it happening. Never. Not ever. It just happens, always taking me unawares and by surprise.

I am determined to ferret out whatever it is that is behind it all. I’m certainly capable, especially since I have decades of experience as an information sleuth at The Library of Congress. If I can find stuff in books, it will be a sneeze for me to find stuff in my dustpan and in my vacuum cleaner bag, and I can analyze my findings using my powerful Sherlock Holmes Magnifying Glass.

Actually, I have begun to do so already. I am horrified to the point of being nearly speechless, mainly because I don’t know how some of it is getting in my house.

I always do a general sweep of my floors several times a week, so I ought not have a lot of anything in my dustpan ever. You’ll be surprised. Information sleuth that I pride myself in being, I have organized my findings according to Library of Congress Call Numbers, which I have researched painstakingly and meticuloosly.  I hope that by providing these call numbers, you can classify your own dirt.

TS2020.D87. DUSTPAN FINDINGS

● RC867. The Last Strands of a Balding Hero: Lord, help us all. I found more than a few strands of my own hair, valiantly hanging on, participating in a follicular showdown with the relentless forces of balding.

● SF411-459. Doggy Debris: I found a generous contribution of short black dog hair, forming an uncanny tribute to Ruby’s daily shedding rituals. Bless her precious heart. A few of her hairs won’t matter nary no bit at all.

● TX808.C78. Crumb Conundrum: Duh! I expected that: I am baker. Hear me rise! Nonetheless, it is weirdly fun for me to see these crumbs since I know each one’s unique origin story and flavor profile.

● SB453.5.G37. Gardener’s Treasure Trove: As you might expect, bits of soil and garden debris snuck in just to remind me of my gardening prowess and green-thumbed escapades.

● SD397.F67. Forest Souvenirs: I also spied leaves and twigs from my lush garden adventures, as if the forest itself decided to follow me indoors.

● QL458.2.S65. Spider Artifacts: Damned arachnids. I even saw a few spiderwebs, a spider leg or three, evidence of arachnid architectural failure.

● TX339.L56. Lint Lagoon: How about a lot of lint and fuzz, aerial fluffiness in a sea of debris.

● TD427.P37. Mystery Particles: I swear that I have looked and looked, and after all I have unidentifiable specks and particles that defy explanation, as if they were transported from The 5th Dimension, just to confuse me some more.

§ § § § §

TR899.D57, OR TX314.N8, OR TS221.C55. VACUUM CLEANER BAG FINDINGS.

Well, the bag looks like a pufferfish, so I needed to clean it anyway. There’s no way–there’s just no way–that I’ll empty its contents indoors. This exploration requires that I be outdoors as I delve into the bag, unearthing a few more enemies sucked up from the depths of my home’s nooks and crannies.

● CT9999.M42. Paper Trail of a ReInvented Life: I’m not too surprised to find stray paper scraps, receipts, and notes that have been vacuumed up. I pause as I peruse each one and sigh:

“My goodness,” I say to myself for no one else to hear, “My goodness, my goodness. Maybe I should dust these off and file them away as evidence of my busy, document-scattered, reinvented existence.”

● TS1345.B88. Button Bonanza: Glory Halleluliah. At last, I’ve found my buttons–Button, button, who’s got the button?–and I can embark on a sewing spree and attach the buttons to their rightful owners.

● Z711.P37. Paperclip Parade: To get my daily steps in, I often walk around while I’m doing desk cleanup. Obviously, I’ve lost a few clips during my metallic shenanigans.

● QM23.2.A5 OR T47.L67. Nutty Surprises: Say whaaat? Nuts and bolts? I have no idea what to do with them, so I’m sure that I didn’t drop them. Ahhh. Now I’m getting closer to the truth, and I know exactly what to do. A rogue handyman elf dropped them on a mission to confound me. Just wait ’til I get my hands on/around him/them.

● TT145. Crafty Clues: I swear to you, My Dear Readers who know me so well, that I cannot account for all of the glitter, beads, and sequins. At this point in my life, I am as open as a book, and while I am crafty, it’s never covert and behind the scenes. Give me a sec while I dust off these baubles. They’re just too cutsey-wootsey to toss out. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they’re forming a tiny glittery army, just the way they did the other day when I was trying to hide them.

● HG222.3. Dusty Coin Cache: I am not about to throw away the coins that I found. On my reinvented salary–even factoring in my negative royalty payments from In Bed and Green Mountain Stories–I need every Hungarian pengő that I find. What a welcome treasure trove, right beneath my sneezing nose.

● QL678.9. Feathered Friends: Feathers! While I’m not thrilled to find so many of them—enough to turn myself into a modern-day Icarus—I’ve traced their origin to my strong work ethic, which apparently keeps me busy even in my sleep having pillow fights with myself. It’s either that or invisible birds are taking flight to confound me.

§ § § § §

I am confident that you will agree with me. Analyzing and classifying my vacuum cleaner bag debris and my dustpan debris is fascinating–actually, it’s riveting, especially since I assigned Library of Congress Call Numbers to each category–but it is not helping me fulfill my initial mission of discovering who/what the hell is getting my house dirty every time that I get it close to passing the White-Glove Inspection. And I haven’t even shared with you my horror when I discover streaks and smudges that appear on my windows and stainless-steel appliances almost immediately after I polish them.

Well, this much I know. Ruby and I are relatively small and do not take up much space, so there’s no way–there’s just no way–that the two of us can be the masterminds of all this mayhem.

I have one more thing that I plan to do. I’ll set up cameras and infrared lights in my mountain abode–just as Ghost Hunters do–and when I watch the celluloid–cellulite?–I will discover the culprits and bare them to the world.

Information sleuth that I am, I found myself flipping through the virtual pages of the Ghost Hunter’s handbook. If you are into the paranormal–or, for that matter into the normal–you may be familiar with it: Spectral Shenanigans: A Ghost Hunter’s Guide to Afterlife Amusements (Call Number: HQ666 G5S68 2023). The book speaks of a need for a curious blend of cutting-edge gadgetry–(That’s me!)–and a dash of supernatural charm–(That’s me, too! I am an aerial spirit, after all!)–to capture elusive spectral entities on film.

I started my journey by selecting the most strategic camera positions, carefully pinpointing those areas where perplexing window streaks and elusive stainless-steel smudges keep appearing and reappearing. One was trained on the stainless-still kitchen sink, the scene of many a phantom dishwashing episode. Another zeroed in on the microwave, the double wall ovens, and the refrigerator, where inexplicable fingerprints left their ghostly marks.

Then I embarked on a similar quest by strategically positioning cameras at the windows that peer out onto my deck, across the Shenandoah Valley, and to the mountain range beyond. 

Once the cameras were in position, I tapped into advanced virtual surveillance software, not too unlike the spectral-analysis tools used by seasoned Ghost Hunters. This high-tech wizardry has the power to identify peculiar movements, whether the handiwork of gnomes or spirits.

And there I was, sitting spectrally on my couch with a trusty bowl of popcorn that I popped exclusively for Ruby. (I assure you that there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I would pop a bowl of popcorn for me.) I felt just like a seasoned Ghost Hunter, ready to expose the true nature of these elusive entities. And Ruby must have felt that way too because she kept looking around to see what I was looking around to see. Were they crafty forest creatures, whimsical feathered friends, or perhaps mischievous spirits? The spirit of being a mountain man in the wilderness coursed through my veins, as I eagerly awaited any signs of movement, waltzing shadows, or ghostly charades. Indeed, this was no ordinary evening; it was the evening when I transformed my mountaintop oasis into a paranormal stakeout.

Lo and behold! In my quest to discover the secret sources of all my dirt, I had reinvented myself accidentally once more. Go figure. I had embraced the fleeting role of a domestic detective, hell bent on uncovering the antics of the whimsical creatures who plague my search for a little White-Glove Cleanliness. I swear. I could hear echoes resonating through the very walls of my home. I verily believe that they were laughing at me. And if they weren’t laughing at me, they were laughing at the Sherlock on the Summit that I had become, foolishly hoping to solve the dirt, dust, and grime mysteries of my mountain abode. Nevermore.