Clean Up in the Uncool Aisle

I know I have built my reputation as Funny Blogging At-Home Dad No. 877 by putting this image in your head of me as a domestic god in boxer briefs, a featherduster in hand, but I must confess. Once a week, a team of international experts in suburban waste and hazardous material disposal scour our home, destroying all pathogens and pointy-toothed dust bunnies.

I'm not sure of the finer points of law, but I'm pretty sure my writing them checks to "cash" every week disqualifies me from elected office or the Supreme Court. The nation breathes a collective sigh of relief.

These international minesweepers o' mine are three very conscientious, Windex-loving women from Poland. Every week they spare me the wrath of My Love over make-or-break marital issues such as my inadequacy at folding clothes (I refuse to master this until she passes Remedial Dishwasher Loading -- damn her gender's inferior visual spatial relation skills) and her general dislike of manual labor.

This latter point, though, comes in direct conflict with her dislike of paying people to do manual labor for her. I usually resolve this by having her help me with a few hours of yard work. For example, this scene last month after we planted some shurbs: My Love in full Scarlet O'Hara mode, encrusted in dirt and sweat, obligatory straw gardening hat with plastic flowers withering upon her head, saying: "I shall never spend my weekend digging holes … again!"

Anyhow, this wonderful, rotating cast (work visas come, work visas go) of heavily accented Fairies With Fantastic ("weeth bleeeech" as they like to specify) has been getting a bad rap of late with the Things. Seems every time my children can't find a certain toy, library book or "dangerous" power tool, the whining refrain of "the cleaning ladies must have moved it" is heard throughout my humble domain.

Never mind that the "missing" item is right where it should be, in sight so plain even U.N. weapon inspectors following Bush administration intelligence reports could find it. Their lack of critical deductive reasoning skills and inability to pull their glassy eyes from another episode of "The Suite Life of Zack and Cody" is why a single round of hide 'n' seek at our house lasts as long as a Paul Thomas Anderson movie. But without the slow dissolves, milkshake declarations and deluge of frogs.

With the Things home for the summer, I saw the opportunity to finally get my little piece of the Polish Underground Railroad off their lists.

Their mission, if they chose to take it: Spy on the cleaning ladies for one morning. Just follow them around, note their carefully crafted plans to "misplace" every artifact the Things hold dear, and report back to me so I could pretend to take this very seriously while trying not to wet myself.

Thing 1 flat out refused to take part without compensation. "I want $20," she said. "And a Webkinz."

"You have 632 Webkinz and you still owe me $5.75 for the Pokemon Shakedown of June Ought-Eight. Get back to your Crayolas, midget."

Thing 2, however, needed little coaxing. "Keeeewl! I get to spy. I get to spy!" When his little buddy came over to help him and My Love at strawberry picking (yep, my international HR executive goddess also employs child labor in her off hours), he apparently spent a good 15-minutes on his pending James Bond Jr. epic.

He better get some good dirt tomorrow. My dwindling subscriber list is depending on it.