This weekend, in preparation for the holidays, my mother took it upon herself to clean the house from top to bottom. The difference between my mom’s clean house and my mom’s dirty house is not detectable by the naked eye, but Mom has always adhered to the “electron microscope” standard. We’re happy to take her word for it. She likes a clean house.

After her customary sweeping, polishing, and chemical warfare against dust and grime, Mom woke up on Monday to find that her toils had made her very sore. Feeling old, she said, “Ouch! My achy toils! I feel sore and old.”

“You are being punished by our Lord for your sin, working on the Lord’s day,” replied Dad absolutely insanely.

I don’t live in the house or go there, so I don’t know how much of this story is just bad press (my source is somewhat biased) but it comes on the heels of unconfirmed reports that Dad stopped talking to my mom and sister for a few days after they ate meat-filled ravioli on a Friday. (I strongly suspect that controversy had less to do with my dad thinking it’s 1959 and more to do with my mom’s reaction, which typically would hinge on speculation about how much ravioli would fit up my father’s ass. Again, the version I heard was likely missing some nuance.) My need to believe the “Lord’s day” thing was a misunderstood joke is weighed against the meat story, and a part of me can’t help but think, “Next stop: voices!”

My father, incidentally, also likes a clean house. He frequently pitches in, ensuring that no dust settles on the remote control.