Cleanliness Is All Relative When Mom and Dad Visit

My parents are arriving this weekend for what is being billed as an “open-ended visit.” That’s a euphemism for “until we all start getting on each other’s nerves.”

You all know what I’m talking about.

What? Change my routine?

Relinquish control over the TV channel changer?

I get along great with my folks, but this is shaping up as the longest visit with them of my adult life.

My dad is 69, I’m 42, and we’re not always on the same page. He’s so vexing: The man is college-educated and still cannot grasp the historical significance of Creedence Clearwater Revival.

We’re also temperamental opposites. He honks the car horn more on one trip to the grocery store than I have in 25 years of driving.

“Look at that jerk pulling out without even looking,” he says, laying on the horn.

“Dad, the guy is two blocks ahead of you.”

(Note to readers: If in the weeks ahead you see a little old man driving a car with Colorado plates who honks at you for no apparent reason, just ignore him.)

Needless to say, the overriding requirement for any impending parental visit is a clean house. You could be unemployed or on parole, but as long as your house is clean, your parents will consider you a success.

Given my hatred for such things, I had planned to have the person who does occasional housecleaning for me come a couple days before my parents arrived. But when I called the other night, her husband said she’s out of town.

I broke the news to my mother but assured her that I’d clean the place before they arrived. “I don’t care if there’s stuff lying around,” Mom said on the phone from a stopover in Phoenix, trying to be nice. “I just need a clean bathroom and kitchen.”

Then, the ominous follow-up query.

“Do you know how to clean the bathroom?”

Yes, I do, Mom, but I don’t really have access to plastic explosives.

“How’s the kitchen?”

Gee, Mom, I haven’t been in there since the late spring of ‘89, but I’m sure everything is fine.

She told me not to worry about it--in that tone of voice that really makes you worry about it.

After hanging up, I surveyed the quarters. On the living room floor was what appeared to be an artistic assemblage of newspapers, socks, plastic bags, videotape containers, bedroom slippers, four empty Pepsi bottles, a picture from the bathroom that had fallen from its casing about six weeks ago, and a towel. There were cobwebs in most corners and a paper sack containing Twinkie remains from last weekend resting in the magazine rack.

It occurred to me that I am a disgusting pig.

I tippy-toed into the kitchen and, gingerly, opened the refrigerator door to survey the contents: a can of chocolate syrup, baking soda and an orange juice container that would have provided an excellent visual aid for students learning about the wonders of sedimentation. That was an easy decision: both juice and container into the garbage.

Upstairs to the bathroom, hereinafter referred to as the Demilitarized Zone. It wasn’t pretty: five towels, standing at attention on the racks. The same spider in the same place in the tub. Enough soap scum in the shower to skate on. Enough hair in the sink and floor to reupholster a good-size sofa and love seat.

Taking a page from Schwarzkopf in Iraq, I lined up the full artillery needed to do the job right.

Sponge. Mop. Rubber gloves. Scrub brush. Broom. Bucket. Anti-bacterial agent. Shower tile disinfectant. Toilet bowl cleaner. Window cleaner for mirror. Call in the neighbor kid to remove the spider.

With mission accomplished, I advanced to the adjoining spare bedroom, which I had closed off in recent weeks to conserve heat. It had the arresting fragrance of gym shoes, which apparently was no deterrent to the multitude of spiders that were reveling in what looked like the cast party for “Arachnophobia.”

It was pushing midnight, but the house was clean.

The things we do out of fear of our parents. Or is it something else?

I talked to my sister on the phone a few days ago and she was excited about Mom and Dad’s visit.

She said she had talked to Dad a year or so ago while visiting them in Nebraska. His health was shot, and he was looking out the window of his bedroom and doing his dialysis treatment as he talked to her.

He told her what she already knew, that he’d never been to visit me since I had moved to California in 1986. He had always been able to make it to Denver when I lived there, but California seemed too arduous a trip. So, he told her, he doubted that he’d ever be able to see where I lived or worked.

Then, she said, his eyes started to mist over.

Well, he’s on his way now and next week he’ll spend his first winter morning sitting in the California sunshine since he was at Camp Pendleton before World War II.

He’ll see the Pacific Ocean for the first time in 50 years and my humble little office. And, he’ll be staying in the cleanest damn house in Huntington Beach.

Now, if I can just keep him from driving . . .

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.