mopFirst off, I HATE housework.

I am my mother’s child.  Her motto was “Go ahead and write your name in the dust, just don’t put the date.”  Word’s to live by, and I have.

My house is a reflection of this attitude.  Not filthy, but never sparkling clean – maybe, comfortably grubby would be the best description.   My mother’s solution was to have kids and make them do the housecleaning.  I never wanted kids and have never had them.  (I have all the respect in the world for people who are willing to raise children, I just know that I, personally, am way too selfish, and somehow I made it through my misspent youth without ever getting pregnant.)

So enough background.

I have undertaken the most unpleasant job in the house – scrubbing the kitchen and dining room floors.  First I sweep (tons of cat fluff – we have 3), then I apply floor cleaner, then I scrub, then I mop up the dirt and water.

I get about 3/4ths done when the mop “breaks”.  The part that has the sponge attached comes off the handle.  Fuck.  This has happened before, so I know what to do.  I go get a hammer, remove the sponge, and pound the part back onto the handle.  Success.  Briefly.  It breaks again.  Fuck, fuck.

This is when I get the brilliant idea that I will not only pound the damn handle back on, but this time I will liberally apply superglue to the problem.  This stuff can hold a man hanging from a girder, surely it will work to keep a mop handle and base together.

I take the damn thing apart (again) and get the superglue.  I apply the superglue liberally (did you know that stuff doesn’t stay where you put it?).  First mistake, I put it on the outside of the handle, when the base fits on the inside.  (OMG just kill me now.)  So put the glue on the inside and on the base, pound the mf’er back together.  Success!

My thumb is now glued to the handle of the mop and my socks are glued to the floor.  (I did mention that stuff doesn’t stay where you put it, right?)  I am not about to go through life with a mop glued to my hand, so I pull the thumb loose – leaving part of my thumb skin forever attached to the mop handle.  And pull my socks loose (leaving festive pink fuzzy spots on the floor).

The floor is now clean.  And I have the wounds to prove it.

God, I hate housework.

14 thoughts on “FAT OLD LADY VS. THE MOP

  1. As you can see, the link did work eventually. I can identify with this post. I am particular about some things, such as a clean bathroom, kitchen fixtures, dishes, clothes, etc. However, I have always been a fairly casual housekeeper. I chose to have children & they were my first priority. I have also been helping to raise my granddaughter & she is a higher priority than dust bunnies. My other reasons range from thinking life is too short to spend it all chasing dirt which will be here after I am gone, &, moreso, physical limitations. I am 64 years old, I have cerebral palsy & now arthritis. I lack strength, endurance, the ability to a lot of bending, stretching, heavy lifting, or intensive. My son helped me clean & reorganize a bedroom yesterday, & I was very tired & sore when we finished.

    My floors are giving me fits this winter. It is icy out there, so we need to spread lot of dirt in order for me to get outside at all, even to get to a car. There is that dirt, mud, melting snow. We have no shed, mud room, or entry; you step from the outdoors into my kitchen. I chase the dirt around a lot, sweeping or vacuuming most every day, & washing kitchen & bathroom floors quite often. However, it seems largely pointless until Spring.

    Life has to be about more than a spotless house. We need to honor our own priorities & our limitations & keep a sense of perspective. For me, that includes reminding myself that I am doing well enough.

  2. OMG! I can just see you! I would say that “the gods” don’t want you doing housework, either; look how you were sabotaged! Do as I do…hire out. Writing a check is easy. No glue required.

  3. Hilarious. I’m with you on this. I keep my place tidy – but it’ll never pass the white glove test. I think I manage to injure myself in some way every time I do some chore.

  4. Thank you for starting this blog, Terri. Your comments were very entertaining. Truly, my funny friend, I would expect nothing less from you!

    I completely understand. We are forever bonded on this matter. I live in coastal Oregon now, and the normal winter weather is rain, icy rain, drizzle or heavy winds with, yes… rain. I don’t have a mud room. I have a small place and using any part of it as a location to eject boots and such is just not an effective use of space. Instead I have a postage stamp size rug and bath towel size rag on which I can step after entering my lovely little abode. The result, of course, is a lot of wet mud that turns into dried mud, some on the rag and rug, some on the tile near my front door. The dry mud on the rug and rag is shaken outside where it promptly blows back into the cottage by the eternally blowing wet winds. The mud that ended up on the tile floor moves in, and becomes a somewhat permanent resident. I vacuum once in awhile, but I really do have a life and am not interested in performing “molly maid” all day.

    I must go out at least 4 times a day. I have a sweet little doggy and she needs to go outside 3-1/2 (when there are gale force winds we just do a quick run around in the front yard which may or may not be terribly effective) or 4 times a day, plus I need to run to my PO Box and run various errands. So, I bring in wet mud that turns into dry mud a number of times on a normal (i.e., rainy) day.

    I’m certainly not alone in this adventure. Everyone up here brings mud into their (there, they’re) homes. I don’t believe it is possible to avoid it. I presume, therefore, that having some dry mud on the floor is not only acceptable but a bold and joyous way of declaring my love for residing in this beautiful and rather wet location. We of the coastal northwest are at one….

  5. After turning on the garbage disposal without the cover on and spewing coffee grounds all over
    my sink, window, and cabinet top, followed by dropping a 64 oz. new jar of pickles on the floor and
    breaking it, followed by finding out after cleaning my oven by hand twice that I actually have a self-cleaning oven, I decided that I was not meant to have a neat house…

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