Feb. 19, 2008 at 4:02pm
(a couple of handfuls of medical issues)
On Sunday, I decided to break down and clean the floor.
Typically, when I clean, it's a full-on event. It starts with an all-over tidy, which is followed up by a dust-through, first with my Caldrea duster, and then with a basin full of lovely-smelling cleaner and a Tacoma Health Department washcloth. That's a vigorous, muscles-involved swipe-swipe, which is then dried with a cloth diaper, which happens on kitchen counters, too. After that, it's floor-sweeping fun, first with a broom, then with a Swiffer-on-Speed (a velcro-attached micro-fiber big-headed floor duster thing) which is finally followed by a mopping-- same dust mopper thing, dampened with swedish finish cleaner & water, on hardwoods, lovely smelling cheap cleaner (fabuloso, in case you're interested) on ceramic tile.
It's all pretty labor intensive, leaving me sweaty, panting, and happily breathing in my freshly cleansed air for all of, like, 18 seconds until the dogs tear through and drop dirt like ...well... dogs dropping dirt, on every surface.
So, let's get back to Sunday, shall we? I decided to clean the floor. I omitted most of the other stuff, because the family was around and we were doing family-y things. But the floor was just... nasty, so I decided to clean it, mostly only it. But the Eastern European in me just... couldn't....help it, and had...to...do...more.
The mop couldn't reach an under-the-stove crevice, so I hands-&-knees scrubbed, moving quickly, hard, then harder, more and more vigorously (kind of my trademark move) and managed to catch a sharp, metallic piece hanging off the stove under my fingernail. I pulled out my hand, and saw blood and a chunk of flesh hanging out from the fingernail.
What I lacked in vigor and scrubbing at that point, I matched in volume, hollering some string of obscenities that I daren't --ever-- repeat (though I will point out, a certain word that rhymes with duck can be conjugated widely, as a verb, and turned into all of the other parts of speech. Impressive.)
The Man had to hide a smile (because he knew what was good for him) but he gave me that "told you so" sort of look as he calmly directed me in my own first aid.
See, The Man often admonishes me as I embark on questionable housekeeping behaviors. Standing on rocking chairs to change lightbulbs, for instance. He sees that as foolhardy. Or wielding paring knives toward my body as I pare and slice. Or, slamming a knife into an avocado pit as I hold the halved avocado, holding said knife horizontally. He likes to stab the avocado pit, holding the knife vertically (think, "Psycho")
And so we come to something like "revenge" in this story, though in point of fact, it's more like "how dumb things happen from dumb behaviors."
Yep, he went to stab the pit, missed the pit, stabbed through the 'cado, and yep, he created a bit of a bloody mess.
Yep, I smiled as I asked him what size Barbie Band-Aid he needed, and yep, I gave him a (very sympathetic, though wicked) "told you so" sort of look.
(note: keep sharp objects away from this pair.)
comments  | posted under d'oh, housekeeping, woundsComments
by KevinFreitas on 2/19/2008 @ 5:01pm
|Glad you made it out of cleaning in one piece. I'll be up on our deck roof later this week and will try and avoid rusty nails and the jaggy tip of the sawzall.|
by jcbetty on 2/19/2008 @ 5:06pm
|"rusty nails" and "jaggy tip of the sawzall" just made the hairs on the back of my neck cringe and squeal. (you're up on your tetanus, right? Not that I doubt your superior Mr Fix-it-ness, but...well... ya know. A good idea is just a good idea...) (yeah, mine's expired, in point of fact. Might want to look into that...)|
musing her way through arts, culture, dining, shopping, exercising, and parenting, all while wearing a pungent, truffle-like aroma.