Rock & Roll Heaven needs a maid. Know anybody who's interested? It doesn't pay much ... and the victim, er ... person who volunteered would have to put up with a snooty cat. But we could sure use some help. There's just so much to do - so much ground to cover, so many missions in the offing - that I don't even think about it. It is completely unimportant to me. WAY down there on my list of priorities.

Cleaning house is one of those details of life for which I choose not to find time. Once in a while I get forced into it; someone drops by or something breaks and needs repair, and those cleanings usually get us through. But once in a while (like now) it begins to be evident that perhaps a policing is in order strictly for its own sake. At times like these, I almost wish I had inherited the Suzy Homemaker gene. Almost.

This particular affliction seems to be uncommon in women. Not to make any generalizations here, but we ladies generally like things clean and orderly. And that has been a problem for me in almost every one of my relationships. Not so much because anyone expected me to live up to the tradition, but because I expected it of myself. It was ingrained in me, I suppose, from my earliest recollections. I actually tried it at times. But I'm a miserable failure at Housekeeping 101. I even flunked remedial classes.

Life is not orderly, ladies and gentlemen. Life runs to chaos. I'm sure you've probably noticed that. So why fight it? Let there be decay. Let there be disorder. Let there be dirt. Without dirt, where would we be? Drifting around the universe in some other form, probably. Rather than doing that, I'd just as soon be here with books and magazines and music piled about.

A couple of weeks ago one of my engineers told me he has figured out that you really only have about 20 hours in a week to do what you want to do. After you subtract hours spent at work, hours running errands, hours maintaining your homestead, hours sleeping ... you wind up with a handful of time in which to do nothing but please yourself. I'd never thought about it that way before, but it certainly confirms my philosophy. During my 20 hours, if I have to choose between talking to a friend and scrubbing the toilet bowl, you can bet the toilet will be the one who feels neglected.

Feed the wildlife? I'll be happy to. Listen to the tape Gregg sent? Sure, let's crank it way up. Call a fellow agent and solve the world's problems? No problem. Lay on my back in the morning grass, wet with dew, and soak up bird songs? Outta my way! But vacuum the floor? Please, let me make the sign of the cross to protect myself. I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that kind of language around me.

I guess there's no getting around it. There are simply some women who can't abide doing housework. I'm one of 'em. We're perfectly good women, you understand - we have lots of other great qualifications - we're just missing that one pesky gene. So Rock & Roll Heaven is in the market for a maid.

All applicants considered.

An equal opportunity enterprise.