This
is a good day. Though it began as gray and sluggish as simmering
oatmeal, it has steadily grown into an energizing, high-speed
puree, ever since noon, when I got the phone call from Jo.

"Can you handle a dinner for five?"

"Who?"

"My boss and his entourage."

"Let me get my calendar."

"I mean tonight," she said.

"Tonight! You mean five hours from now?"

"I'm sorry. Can you do it?"

"Of course I can do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"I really can take them out, Lincoln, but it's Jerry and his group,
and they always prefer a home-cooked meal. And they like your
cooking."

"I can do it," I said.

On the drive to the grocery store, with Violet listening to a tape
of Sesame Street songs in her car seat, I decided on an Indian
chicken masala, which, after being thrown together, could simmer
for hours with an occasional stirring while I cleaned the house.
I'd serve it with basmati rice and some kind of cool, astringent
salad that would cut the curry.

Jo had said the house was already clean, that it wouldn't take much
to get it ready for guests, but she doesn't understand these
things. It wasn't dinner-party clean, it wasn't clean like a
fresh hotel room, everything aligned and pulled tight and poofed
up, all the collapsed fibers standing up-right once again.

So, with my masala simmering on low, I launched into tornado mode,
like the Tasmanian Devil on the Bugs Bunny videos. I've learned
that housework, done well, is impossible with a single-task
mind-set. It's best to dart about like a hummingbird, tangential
but still focused, conquering as you go, racking up little
victories that accumulate and form something larger and
significant. I began zipping from room to room, multitasking,
occasionally peeking into Violet's bedroom where she played with
paper dolls.

As the Lysol steeped in the toilet bowls, I watered all the plants
on the main floor, stopping midway to make the bed in the master
bedroom and pick up from the floor two pens and Jo's calculator,
which I stowed in the pocket of my cargo shorts until I passed
through Jo's office on my way to transfer the red load from washer
to dryer.

Which reminded me: Heat of a dryer.

Which reminded me: Dry heat.

Which reminded me: Dry heaves.

Buy Mylanta for Jo.

Atlanta Braves.

Play date.Violet needs more friends.

As I dusted an end table, I glanced at my watch. Would there be
enough time for the wine to sufficiently chill? I pushed three
bottles of chardonnay into the ice bin of the freezer then set the
oven timer for forty minutes. Before leaving the kitchen, I washed
the floor in the main cooking area on my hands and knees, because
damp mops simply redistribute the dirt into fuzzy lines.

I shook the foyer rug outside and draped it over my shoulder, then
pulled out my pocket knife and snipped enough daisies and
snapdragons and rosemary sprigs for a dining-room-table
centerpiece.

Passing through the kitchen, I stirred the masala and called to ask
the electrician to return on Friday to correct that flickering
fluorescent bulb that made the laundry room look like an old
black-and-white movie. The electrician reminded me of the light he
fixed in the bathroom, which reminded me of the bathroom-wall
bulletin board where we display clippings that amuse us. Since one
of these guests tonight was Jo's boss, I found and pinned up the
story from the Rochester Business Journal that featured Jo
in the "Twenty Young Executives to Watch" issue.

All the while, I performed house-cleaning triage in my mind: The
sandy front stoop-critical. I did not have to soak the knobs on the
stove in ammonia water, not until tomorrow, but the backdoor throw
rug with dried banana pudding either needed to be laundered or
tossed into the closet. I could ignore the master bedroom if I shut
and locked the door, but what if they wanted to see the house?
They'd know we'd only lived here a year. Out of courtesy, women
would request a tour, men wouldn't, but I couldn't be certain the
group would be all male.

Make bed.

Cover Violet's pee stain with throw pillows from living-room
couch.

Remember to call man to come shampoo couch.

New couch?

Property taxes paid first.

Call CPA.

C-3PO.Was Violet too young for Star Wars?

By five-thirty, I'd set the table and made the salad.Wine was back
in the refrigerator, rice simmering in the steamer. I had time to
pick five innocuous CDs that would allow for conversation but still
convey to the world that we are eclectic and current.

At five to six, I was dressed and sipping a glass of cabernet. I
dimmed the lights and lit the candles. This was the first time all
afternoon I'd slowed down enough to notice my breathing and the
beating in my chest. Though I'd taken a shower, my head was warm
and flushed, fresh sweat beading on my forehead. I had that
lingering glow from a full day of aerobics. Maybe I'd lost a few
pounds.

Join a gym?

Buy birthday card for Jim, Jo's CFO.

Get Violet's portrait taken.

Check with dentist to make sure baking-soda toothpaste is okay
for children's teeth.

I knew Jo would remember the evening as a success, though the
details that created it would escape her. She wouldn't realize that
a meal from scratch takes at least six hours, and that I'd
magically done it in three. She wouldn't know that I vacuumed the
seats of the dining-room chairs or oiled the squeaky hinge of the
front door or played the CDs in random mode to help stimulate
anticipation, but these things are important to me because this is
what I do, and I do it very well.