Columnist’s wife takes coronavirus cleaning to spotless level

I went to work Thursday morning.

I forgot to wear shoes.

I didn’t notice until pulling my car into the parking lot, shutting off the engine and stepping outside.

Feet felt a little different. Eight miles of driving. No shoes.

Never had a clue.

The shoes were at home in the garage.

Because everything is in the garage now, hidden under a mountain of Lysol.

I’ve lost my mind with all this cleaning.

First things first. The coronavirus is frightening to all of us. Nine hundred more souls died Wednesday in the United States. These are awful times. We just want it to end.

Nothing is funny about this.

But history tells us that within each of life’s tragedies exists a lighthearted perspective of things. Helps keep us sane.

Remember the part about there being a thin line between laughter and pain?

We have both at my house.

I’m living in a hospital ward.

Rising Star of Spotlessness

For this, I have my lovely wife to credit (blame?). She has created a new universe when it comes to spring cleaning.

When this is all over and COVID-19 has been defeated, I’m assuming the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention will bestow her some sort of award.

Maybe something like the Rising Star of Spotlessness. Maybe we’ll get a new mop.

Now, understand I outkicked the coverage in marrying Bonnie 23 years ago by a distance of Maui to Montana.

For two-plus decades, I have introduced her to others and received that same curious and skeptical look of disbelief.

She gets a look of sympathy.

Same with the two kids. People see them and ask how long their father has been a mailman.

We owe her everything. She’s the most amazing wife and mother.

But the virus has flipped a switch. Cleaning has become an obsession, even more than experts suggest is necessary.

The dogs are one loose hair away from being banished to the garage with my shoes.

Social distancing isn’t a problem, given Bonnie has embraced that concept when it comes to me for a good decade now.

But she’s waiting for me at the door every day.

That never happened before. I’m not even sure she knew where I worked before this.

But now, I’m trained to hand over the car keys and iPhone for a cleaning with no debate.

It’s always the same greeting.

“Take off those clothes while I wipe down the steering wheel.”

I have seasonal allergies and sneezed the other night. You can imagine the look I received.

I half expected her to wheel out a ventilator and hook me up, but only after I had signed over power of attorney and promised there were no secret bank accounts.

I love Amazon Prime. Click on it several times daily. I purchase things that I have absolutely no use for.

But nothing compares to my wife now. Amazon stock is holding up better than most during the virus outbreak. That’s all Bonnie. Jeff Bezos owes her a dinner.

I also feel bad for the Amazon delivery folks. They walk up to our gate as usual, but are now greeted with a crazy woman’s voice behind the door asking them to leave the boxes of cleaning supplies a good 10 feet away.

Who is she, Boo Radley?

My office window is near the pathway. They look at me with a horrified glance through the window.

I just shrug and continue writing.

The boxes are then quarantined outside for a good 30 minutes, after which Bonnie cuts them open (while wearing gloves, of course) and retrieves her order. Which is also wiped down.

The daughter is home finishing her freshman year in college online. Poor kid just wants to get out of the house sometimes. Grab some food. Get some air. Escape the lunacy.

Not allowed. We seem to be living on soup and rice.

I’ve dropped 10 pounds and never get off the couch.

The son remained at college to finish his senior year in his apartment. Knows his mother well.

He couldn’t come home if he wanted to, anyway. His room is now that hospital.

The wipes. The sanitizers. The special food bags. The NyQuil. The Lysol. The Clorox. The Pedialyte. The Advil. The Mucinex. The Kleenex. The sugar-free cough drops.

We’re not even sick!

Take time to smile

I understand. These are scary times. We have to be overly cautious.

But we also have to discover time to smile each day. If not, the terror will overcome us.

I thought it nice to buy Bonnie a dozen roses and candy for all she is doing for us. We’d be lost and not nearly as healthy without her.

The box arrived and she seemed happy, only to then take all romance out of the gesture by spraying the flowers with Lysol.

I’m pretty sure half of them died within an hour. I was out $60 and now a pair of athletic socks worn with no shoes, because you know those things were burned within minutes of me arriving home.

I told her about this column.

“I should be able to edit it,” she said.

I passed.

The last thing my laptop screen needs is another cleaning.

Excuse me while I wash my hands and apologize to another Amazon delivery person.

Contact columnist Ed Graney at egraney@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-4618. He can be heard on “The Press Box,” ESPN Radio 100.9 FM and 1100 AM, from 7 a.m. to 10 a.m. Monday through Friday. Follow @edgraney on Twitter.