Three children. Ranch-style home in California. All hardwood floors. I can do a soft-shoe dance with the best of them.

One barefoot walk across the kitchen floor and suddenly I’m Gregory Hines in History of the World: Part 1:

Auctioneer: Where are you from?
Josephus: Ethiopia
Auctioneer: What part?
Josephus: 125th Street.

I can’t stand having the equivalent of the contents of one of the children’s shoes stuck to my bare feet as I walk through the house, and no, I will not stop walking in bare feet. I have the right to bare feet. Isn’t that written down somewhere in Washington?

Instead, I tackle the constant Saharan sand storms that sweep through my home from multiple fronts and with varying levels of intensity.

First, there’s the “no shoes” rule in my family. If you ask any of my children what that means, they will tell you that that is the rule at Grandma’s house. No, it is the rule in MY house. Grandma has it too, and you visit her, say, one-hundredth the number of times you visit me, and yet that is the only place you think to remove your shoes while indoors. Why is that? Clearly, this is not a winning strategy.

Second, there is the trusty broom. I do not remember where I go it, but it is the best broom I’ve ever had. It’s efficient, it cleans well, and it’s pretty, with black lady-bug spots dotting the whole of its shiny red length. Pretty helps when you’re battling dirt. However, the kids cannot connect the fun of riding the lady-bug hobby horse with the reward of having clean floors. In fact, they cannot detect a pile of dirt to save their lives. I can sweep into one corner all I want, and a child will need to shuffle through that corner to pick up a stray Uno card. It never fails.

Third, there is the Roomba! They love the Roomba; Roomba has personality. She needs naps, needs to be charged up to play, and squeaks and squawks to let us know when she’s hit an obstacle, is full, or just needs a rest. Instead of a pet, we have a Roomba. We all love the little trumpeting “da da DA ta dah!” she gives as she begins her rounds.

My fourth and constant backup is the Ionic Breeze air filter. Scoff all you want, but when that puppy is running, I swear there is less dust everywhere. It needs a lot of cleaning and gets a little crotchety sometimes, crackling and fizzing like a bug screen with a moth seared to its grill, throwing sparks like Frankenstein’s lab until you get up, turn it off, and stoke its sides until it’s quiet again. If the Roomba is our Golden Retriever, the Ionic Breeze is our cranky old alley cat.

I could go into the suite of Swiffer brooms, and believe me, I’d love to, but suffice to say that I have not yet met a Swiffer I didn’t love. We have one little padded mat in the kitchen and a runner in the hallway, and the Carpet Flick gives them some lovin’ each and every day. The Wet Jet comes out when we need the big guns.

My children may never perfect the art of leaving dirt and debris outside when they come in, and I may be forever doomed to a quick “Cha-cha-cha-cha!” as I pad out to the kitchen to start my day, but my little menagerie of helpers at least keep it tidy enough for me to devote time to my work as a Stand-up philosopher.

Dole Office Clerk: Occupation?
Comicus: Stand-up philosopher.
Dole Office Clerk: What?
Comicus: Stand-up philosopher. I coalesce the vapors of human existence into a viable and meaningful comprehension.
Dole Office Clerk: Oh, a bulls*** artist!