disclaimer or something

A mummy-hand holding, (former) biker gang affiliating, hippie influenced semi crunchy granola mom's ramblings and reminisings on an off-kilter life

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Ode to the floor

I like shiny things, except I don't really like jewelry, so I prefer a shiny floor. Anyone who came to visit would call me a flat out liar, as their shoes crunch on Herriot and stick to old apple juice, as dust bunnies and dog fur perform an all out battle next to their toes.

Truth is, while I love a clean house, I despise any form of cleaning, and I think I would be better at rocket science than organizing clutter.

Know what gets to me? Swiffer commercials. I own two sweepers and two dusters and I am eying the vacuum-sweeper and steam sweeper for Christmas. The commercials show darling and happy housewives making their floors sparkly clean in a jiffy. My lazy ass yearns for the convenience of the Swiffer. My loath of cleaning yearns for me to smile while cleaning. No matter how much cleaning spray my Swiffer squirts out, the fumes do not put me into a drug induced smile. The advertised cleanliness also does not put a smile on my face because SWIFFER LIES. Sure, it makes my house smell clean, but bare feet turn black with grime seconds after cleaning. Just like how my dad hid dirty dishes in the oven so the house looked clean when my mom came home, Swiffer hides the dirt smell to give the indication of a home well cleaned.

I hate you, Swiffer. I just spent twenty minutes scouring my flora with your advertised magic and it doesn't look any cleaner. I even tried to cheat on you and go back to a real mop, but just like in the commercial, the mop is sitting outside by the garbage with a sad look on his face. See, the mil's handle kept detaching from the mop head, and the bucket kept spilling and truth be told, he was a pain in the ass so I kicked him to the curb halfway through cleaning the hallway.

One Swiffer has recently met an untimely death when used as a bee squishing device, and my other one is going limp an detaches from the pole, spilling his electrical wire guts, but he limps along and continues to do the same shitty job as always.

Know what? When my Swiffer dies, I am totally in the market for a new one. It's like when you date the loser and break up with him, only to get back with him, because even if he sucks, he is predictable. He isn't Mr. Right but he is Mr. Somebody and I want to keep he dream alive. I am ready to accept a new Swiffer into my heart and home because I know exactly what to expect - dust bunnies and apple juice covered up in clean scent.

No comments:

Post a Comment