Tag: cleaning

Epiphany, or 20CMB10 as we like to call it

It’s Three Kings Day – Epiphany! We acknowledged the 12 Days of Christmas by being lazy about cleaning up our tree and then this morning, all four of us stepped outside in the frozen tundra of the desert (the lows last night must have been in the 40s — BURR!) to bless the house.

God of Light, bless our house and our family. May this be a place of peace and health. May each member of this family cultivate the gifts and graces you have bestowed, dedicating our talents and works for the good of all.

Make this house a shelter in the storm and a haven of rest for all in need of your warmth and care. And when we go out from this place, may we never lose sight of that Epiphany star.

As we go about our work, our study, our play, keep us in its light and in your love.

It’s a Methodist prayer and we are Episcopalian, but like God really cares. I also don’t think God cares that the marking of the door with the date and initials of the kings should be done in chalk and over the door. We don’t have chalk. My kids’ teachers use dry erase and it seems to work miracles in the classroom. It looks good, right?


This version has the added benefit of being mobile. When the landlords kick us out so they can move in (whenever that will be because they just let us know things are “progressing slower than expected”), we’ll just take our blessing with us. That tile is a gift from my boss. She’s way cool like that and I say so knowing full well she doesn’t read this blog.

Kings’ Day means no more tree. What a mess! Better get out the vacuum.


Wah, wah, waaaaaaah.


I replaced the broken belt with a new one, which quickly burned through like the first after I made a big show to the kids that they had to learn to fix such things. Stink and smoke later, both kids stared at me with bitter disappointment in their eyes. I’m going to try a third belt to salvage the vacuum because maybe I didn’t make entirely sure that the brush was rotating properly. Also, I have to show everyone I’m right and that buying a new vacuum would be wasteful. Until then, the broom does an adequate job.

Christmas is cleaned up. Thank you letters, where appropriate (only to the most elderly of family members), are written. Presents put away. Sadly, the end of Christmas means no more of these (from a former boss),


or worse, no more of these (from the attendance clerk at my son’s school).


I like my gifties. Maybe I can craft a convincing argument that all my friends and family should resolve that in 2010, they will give me awesome gifts all year long. Maybe Hawt Mz could send home another empty bag of these cookies.

Anyone? Anyone?

Freshly Mopped

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The Senior Warden and I recently marveled at how predictable our behavior can be. For example, both she and I rearrange the furniture when we are looking for new perspectives or needing to reunite ourselves with our under-the-couch pets. I also like to clean my house prior to embarking on a journey. That’s a metaphor, you know, and it’s related to the moving of furniture and my struggle for perspective because the dust bunnies can be damned. Unfortunately, my brain isn’t working that way right now.

The way my brain is working right now is that you can go on an actual vacation that leaves you feeling slimed – gooey, not skinny, because that would be “slimmed” and I just don’t care that spell check prefers not to recognize my noun verb; though you might feel slimmed, an adjective verb, if you are surrounded by of the sort of people who starve you. In either case, those are usually called home visits. Did I mention I’m going home? Well, I am and when I return, I want clean floors. I spent an hour in the kitchen on my hands and knees, first with a scrub brush (’cause it’s a hard knock life) then with a rinse mop.


Saltillo tiles really look dirty, I mean hide the dirt don’t they? Upon completion of the kitchen tiles, I did the same in the dining room (they’re going to shine like the top of the Chrysler building!). Hello, kitty.


Shut up! Those are the after photos. The kitten isn’t circling her own poo, that’s the original concrete stain showing through the peeling concrete paint. So… uhm… the moral of the story is you can shower as much as you want, some of the dirt just ain’t never going to wash away.

The Magic Car Port Carpet

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Early in the evening Handsome Hubster rolled out a carpet in the car port. How plush is that? The idea was that he’d get it ready for storage with a quick clean, then wrap it up for safekeeping. I had been in the backyard wondering if my grapefruit tree could be brought back to life. I have hope. Many new leaf clusters are busting out of otherwise lifeless branches. I credit Handsome Hubster’s deft work creating a berm at the tree’s drip line. Just past the tree I could see Handsome Hubster at work creating magic. Hadn’t he just set the stage for a terribly special occasion? I thought so. Of course, there was food.

Then this one

and this one

asked me to read. After four chapters, we were reduced to lollygagging.

I love special occasions. Don’t you?

Housekeeping

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Not the real sort of housekeeping where I wash dishes or any of that. As the hubster will attest, I detest such frivolity and won’t entertain even the thought it. For example, here is my drawing room:


And my library:


Okay, these are photos of the Collyer Brother’s home, but only because we don’t have a drawing room or a library. Instead we have a landfill and a Goodwill drop-off station, and unlike these photos, my clutter is in color. I’m ignoring the real cleaning for now. The housekeeping to which I refer is the mental, electronic sort. Therefore, today I’m presenting a listy sort of thing.

1. I’ve delivered another phenomenal guest post to Denveater. Seriously, I am so erudite, sophisticated, amazing … where was I? Oh, yes, I am well edited. That’s what I mean. She makes me smart. Big hearts to the glamorous, hilarious, and freakishly intelligent Ruth for whom I’d write anything.

2. While driving around in the minivan listening to the oldies station and not paying attention, the 6 YO girl says, “Mom, if it is a bad case, then he probably should go to the doctor, but I think he’s talking to his girlfriend.”

3. I’ve been crazy stand-on-my-head while running in circles busy. This is the afternoon of my dreams:

Thems are beets from Hawt Mz. Molly who identified and lifted one of my many recent foul moods, veggie fried rice fortified by backyard chicken eggs, and a Mexican Coke made with real sugar and not the post-New Coke crap.

4. I’m proud of my for pay job. It’s fun, interesting, and challenging. I actually get to use my college degree. Yup. I got one or two or three. I know, I know. You are shocked, but it’s true. I don’t do anything without my computer guru, Ultimate. Except this, I did this all by myself (with the help of a zillion other people). You can see me in the background trying to convince people how cool my job is. Get out your tissue. Two asides: A) don’t get me in trouble and B) we are in a capital campaign and if you have a check for a million or so, your gift will be fully tax deductible.

And just like that, I’m exhausted and can’t sweep up one more item for you. Those dusty corners aren’t going anywhere. I’m totally going to do a Scarlet O’Hara on them.

New Year’s Kiss Off!

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You see that? THAT is how I feel about the new year thus far. It’s only puke, cleaning up puke, and being flipped off at the In-N-Out on New Year’s Eve. Okay, that latter part is actually quite funny, don’t you think? The hubster is HILARIOUS.

I spent forever on an end of the year photo retrospective. It was going to be awesome and you would have loved it. Sadly, I never saved the project and it was gone in a flash. So, too bad for all of you ’cause it would have been the bome (inside joke – too bad for you again)!

Did I mention the puke? As in clean it up with a dustpan volumes of puke. Puke from every member of the family except the person who had to clean it all up – me. Puke in the minivan, which requires 24/7 open windows. Puke on the carpet, which has had to be shampooed twice in the last two days. Puke that you slip on when you hit the concrete floors. Puke. That reminds me, I’m not feeling so well.

Speaking of bodily functions, I visited Milk Breath today. She posts about Google Analytics and requests key word search information from other bloggers. Overwhelmingly, poop brings people here. My most viewed page is the chocolate chip cookie post. It would be easier to just look at the bag of chips for the recipe. In any event, I hope poop searches have nothing to do with my cookies.

That cookie post is about accepting imperfections. Having recently returned home from home, I am reaquainted with all my imperfections past and present. If I cared about continuity in writing, I’d say it makes me feel “pukey”, but really it feels like shame. Shame, shame, everyone knows your name. I wondered about this today with a friend. I’ve done a thing or two that I can’t be proud of, but overall I’ve worked hard to be honorable. WHY do I have to feel shame and why is the shame illusive and not tied into a particular event? My friend said it’s because people have a fixed frame of reference. It’s the you 20 years ago that they can’t let go because it’s familiar. That past you was still trying to figure out how to be and they don’t know the current you. Perhaps, but that’s their problem. Why do I have to feel the shame?

Two days into the new year and here I am. Spinning wheels, puked on, poop reputed, and shamed. Pluck you 2009! I’m resolving to outlast all 365 damn days of you.

Drowning

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So last night I had to be in the bathroom long enough for a woman to dye her hair. I’m not saying I dyed my hair, I’m just saying I was in the bathroom that long. While I was in there, I removed mineral deposits from the shower head. Soak, scrape, soak, scrape.

After picking at white rock cakes with metal prongs for 45 minutes and then getting into the shower, something glorious happened. Large, soft caresses of water fell down upon me like rain drops. I could actually determine the water temperature because I wasn’t focused on the icy burn of a singe drop of water shooting out at a zillion miles per hour straight into my eye.

My rejoicing was short lived. For one thing, I don’t get nearly the exfoliating I had previously. Additionally, I relied on that bullet of water to blast out hair dye from under my fingernails. I mean, it sometimes happens when my friend asks me to color her hair and, oh, point is that sputtering drop magically removed grime from under my fingernails. Also, we lost the low flow feature of the crusty shower head and my hands pruned up. All that work to make something great just back fired.

That’s how my karma works out at the moment. As with last night’s shower, I had early indications today that my labor may bear bitter fruit. After a series of frustrated errands, tasks, and obligations, I found myself this morning in a public restroom. The automatic flushing toilet provided me with an unwelcome bidet experience as I reached for toilet paper.

I quit.

Pride Before the Fall

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The day after my last post, Jesse caught the chickens hen pecking a baby quail. We couldn’t find the nest, so my favorite babysitter (who sits no more) and I ran our baby to an emergency pet hospital. The quail stood up in my hands and took one last breath before expiring about a block away from salvation. The vet rep told me I had to keep the babies warm, as in hot, as in over 100 degrees. Oops.

Late late that night, or early early the next morning as I was trying to get things straight for work, I heard a chirp chirp outside my back door. It was my cat “playing” with another baby quail. For four years, I’ve wished that we could have quail in this yard like we had at our last house. Finally I get a nest, and my peaceable kingdom turns into murderous manor.

I held this baby against my bare belly the same way I did my own children when they were born. I drove to the hospital straight away in spite of Jesse’s begging me to stay off the streets. As it turns out, it was 2 a.m. and peak drunk-driving time. To illustrate Jesse’s point, red, white, and blue swirly lights guided my way through the bleak night. This baby made it to the hospital before death.

The hospital would keep the baby until a representative from Forever Wild arrived. If you love desert wildlife, please take the time to check out their organization. I’m so thankful there was a resource for me with Baby Q1 (may she/he rest in peace), and Baby Q2 (may she/he be rehabilitated). Forever Wild has adoptive quail mothers for babies like mine. How cool is that?

I’m not sure what time I got home, but it was time enough to close my eyes before the hens called to let them out of the coop for their morning bug buffet. I came inside to discover both kids sleeping in my bed with their dad. I carefully picked my way through my daughter’s room and crawled into her crowded bed. I found this photo when I downloaded the photos of the quail.

Where to start with this? First, the obvious. What kind of crazy musical beds is this? We slept where we were told when I was growing up. Second, please notice the sheet on the window. The blinds had broken for the third time and the landlord won’t let me throw them out. While the blinds waited for repair, I put up that sheet to prove you can take the girl out of Oklahoma, but she’ll still use sheets as curtains. Third, housecleaning isn’t my forte and I’ve more than passed that on to my daughter. I like how the closet mirror reflects the coordinating insanity on the bookshelf too. This looks like an I Spy riddle. Finally, do I look the least bit comfortable? There is a fist behind my head; my face is in a stuffed animal; I can’t even straighten my legs.

I think Jesse took this photo to prove a point that he’s been trying to drive home for a long time. Ours is not a peaceable kingdom. It is barely managed chaos. So if you want to know what my plans are for the rest of the summer, I suppose I should aim for no more deaths and much more cleaning.

Be Gone Bunnies

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Being a mom seems so easy, so natural, so effortless for some women. When it comes to feeding, clothing, roofing, and educating my children, I certainly meet the world’s minimum daily recommended allowance. Beyond that, I struggle, I obsess, I cringe. Tucson is a hard place to live for the mother of a kid with a dust allergy. I’m sure this is hard on my son too, but this is my blog. If Parrish wants to post about the cough that keeps him up all night when I don’t manage a thorough dusting, he has his own blog.

Today I learned that along with being slow to care about the PLUs on produce and not playing Baby Einstein to the zygotes I gestated, my dust bunny ranch is ruining my kids. I don’t know why I bothered to breast feed when I was just forcing fire retardants down those innocent, vulnerable baby throats.

Apparently, those dark dwelling dust bunnies have their own culture, whole lives built up around a sedentary lifestyle and, oddly enough, disco. I should have known by the way they swirl around my broom. Some people think of dust bunnies as pets, but dust bunnies have a darker side. They don’t merely reproduce. They mutate – first as hibernating bears and then as devils. I believe it. Dust bunnies are evil!

American Standard, who would like to sell you air quality products, conducted a 20 city census. Check out their Dust Bunny Barometer to see how concerned you should be about your domestic neglect and its possible poisoning of your babies.

If I were a better mom, I would eradicate dust bunnies in the home. Dust bunny removal requires a specialist, I’ve decided. A Hoover engineer well versed in the use of one of those dust sucky things. This ain’t no DIY project. I should probably be able to round up the bunnies and combine them with dryer lint to knit reusable grocery sacks, but I’m not that mom. I’m the mom that waits for snotty noses and lethargy before moving aside heavy furniture.

(Art stolen from MYRANT. That’s my new vision of a dust bunny full of crap that could irritate your kids’ respiratory system at the least and give them cancer at the worst.)

Penny Pincher

“She’s so frugal, her pennies will forever show her thumb and finger prints.” My family didn’t make up the phrase, but did oft apply it to me. I thought economy long before I thought green.

About five years ago, I read the Tightwad Gazette and Cheapskate Monthly issue for issue. I was fascinated with tips such as recycling paper coffee filters and even tried it with success. I calculated the cost of everything I did, but mostly purchases of consumer goods. I was on a mission and completely blissful.

These thoughts (d)evolved leaving me now lost in figures relating to my water, gas, and electrical use. I read my bills; I’ve figured my meters; and I compare month to month behavior. As Jesse points out, it’s still about money. For example, I knew we had a gas leak in our water heater, but lived with it until the gas company hiked their rate by 30%. Nevermind how it may have impacted the health and safety of my family.

One of the largest energy users for residential domiciles is the refrigerator. Last week, I pulled mine back from the wall and saw a huge wad of Boris hair mucking things up. Being a good housekeeper, I swept it up, but didn’t think much of it except that it satisfied my fear that someone might someday want to look behind my refrigerator. I mean I knew, but I didn’t really think about it. But guess what! Cleaning refrigerator coils makes a HUGE impact on energy use and there is a right way to do it.

I guess I’m not all that green. At my core I just don’t like waste but do like manipulating the numbers. I do it while driving too. If I’m headed to Oklahoma at 80 mph and it’s 1000 miles away and I’m held up by icy road conditions, how long before I yell at my kids to quit touching each other?