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.