On Cleaning

Oh, do I hate cleaning. I'm pretty sure there are 7 circles of hell:

1) You're trying to go to sleep and there's a dog barking
2) Driving behind old people
3) I'm not feeling that creative

....


7) Fucking cleaning

Now, I live alone (and I own a blog. I'm a true statistical anomaly) so I've run a swiffer over the floors once every couple of months, more often when I'm having a new lady friend over.

Now, you may be saying to yourself: once every couple of months? That's gross! I would never sleep with a guy who had such a dirty kitchen!

Yes you would. Many of you have. You don't check the kitchen until the next morning. Ha.

I'm subletting though, and don't really want to give the wrong impression to my new subletter, lest she destroy my couch, bed, and desk in my absence, so I'm truly making an effort.

And the people who do this for a living are fucking saints. I should come and have them do this, so as to further their sanctification.

I just did the kitchen, and my God, let me tell you, I am disgusting. I didn't even realize. If I had checked the kitchen last night, I might not have masturbated for fear I was hooking up with someone untoward, but, I digress.

My swiffer wasn't doing it. Because fuck me, apparently, the wet things didn't want to stick to the bottom of the stick thing, so I did it the old fashion way:

This is something I swore I'd never do, and it's the lamest thing to cross of that particular list.

I cleaned the kitchen on my hands and fucking knees.

Not at all like this, unfortunately

I remember I once was rooming with a group of people for a summer, and one day I came home and Kathleen, a roommate, was cleaning the kitchen floors on her hands and knees.

Like this, but with more "Mommy" issues

I remember stopping in the doorway, afraid she might have fallen and was trying to push herself up with a sponge, or something.

Apparently, I was staring.

"What?" quothe she, wiping her brow the back of her wrist.

I shrugged, afraid to a) question the madness, lest she turn it as a weapon against me or b) step over the now immaculate half of the floor near the doorway.

"Nothing," I managed after a moment.

We stared at one another for a long while, sizing one another up like two rival lions, facing off over the psychological kitchen-cleaning territory. She knew me fairly well, and was just DARING me to say something.

She smirked, the fire of battle in her eyes. I, for fear of it, did nothing.

Sensing triumph, she said, "I'll bet no one has ever done THIS before!" and resumed her scrubbing with vigor.

I might have pointed out that unless you're on the verge of a scientific breakthrough, how often other people gauge in whatever activity you are currently engaging in is a pretty good meter of cette activity's general sanity....but, I suppose you have to pick your battles.

And now, after all these years, you've beaten me, Kathleen. Now at least 2 people have done that. Guess you're only sorta crazy after all.

Cheers.