For very sad reasons, I have had to part ways with my cleaner. And because I have had to part ways with my cleaner, I have had to reacquaint myself with that task known as 'cleaning one's own floor'. Now, I do lots of menial-type chores. I wipe and I wash and I scrub and I iron and I shove frankfurts in boiling water and call it 'dinner'. But I have not cleaned my own floor in a very long time. This is partly because I have been lucky enough to have a cleaner, and partly because I wouldn't know what to do with a mop if it jumped into my hands, turned on some music, and began to waltz. (Then again, most people wouldn't know what to do with a waltzing mop - I imagine they would scream and run and seek psychiatric assistance - so I don't feel too bad about that.)
But three days ago, I realised that the floor was not going to clean itself, nor was I going to clean it by power of the mind alone. Nor would my children agree to float a foot above the ground as they moved from room to room, although the youngest in particular did say that she would very much like to be able to fly.
|Artist's Impression of Me Mopping|
And so it was time to face my demons. I went to the store and I bought a mop.
I bought a mop. Oh, how simple I make it sound. But it wasn't simple. It wasn't simple at all. Because, I discovered, there are many types of mops, and I didn't at all know which one was right for me. Did I get the mop that looked like an octopus with 37 ropes for legs? Or the one with the big yellow sponge attached to the end? Or the blue and white one that looked like a hundred chux superwipes had been shredded and attached to the end of a stick?
Well, let's just say I got the wrong one. Because when I came home and mopped my floors (which was not like waltzing with a mop at all) they ended up all streaky and horrible and I ended up rocking in a corner on my knees.
I confessed my tragedy to a girlfriend of mine, who taught me the error of my ways. She told me the correct mop to get for my floors, which I ran out and bought within the hour. And the mop worked like a charm, which made me crazed with glee, which made me horrified that I just got excited over a mop.
And so this is what my life has come to, my friends. I get excited about mops, and try to drown out my own shame by sharing my pathetic secret with the world.
Don't judge me. Okay, judge me. Just don't pity me. Or pity me! But if you really want to help me, please find me a good laundry detergent. The one I use isn't quite brightening my whites, and if I don't get some fulfillment from my laundry, I'm going to end up waltzing with that stupid mop all bloody day.