Getting in touch with my OCD Martha Stewart side

We've spent the last few weeks doing some major home cleanup and touchup, in anticipation of the arrival of dignitaries. Yesterday I was tasked with cleaning up the front porch. So I swept the porch, and the walls, and the posts, and the chair, and the mailbox, and the sidewalk.

Yet, it seemed there was more.

I noticed the porchlight. If you ever are tempted look - really look - at your porchlight, don't.

Our house was built in 1966. That means I completed elementary school, graduated high school, went to college, went to more college, got married, welcomed two kids, hosted four exchange students, and buried my parents before this light was cleaned for the first time. That was yesterday. Stunning now, isn't it?

It required improvising a tool (a Swiffer handle) to poke a rag in to clean the inside, as my hand doesn't fit. It required me to shop-vac two inches of dust and debris out. Because the shop-vac hose is too short to reach, I held the vac on my left hip, bagboy style, while holding the hose nozzle with my right hand.

Feeling pretty cocky when I was done, I looked at the similar sconce on the garage to compare. Another mistake.

That one had apparently been chosen by a bird as a nest site, and it was half full of twigs. It seemed unwise to leave the bulb surrounded by kindling. It was too high to use my bagboy hold, so I set up a ladder and put the shop-vac on it. Then I set up another ladder and climbed it. I had to take out the bulb to get at the twigs, and then I sucked it all out with the shop-vac.

Success!

My dad was very handy, but I think I finally discovered a dad trick that he never tried.