Update: I sincerely hope the three people who reported they cleaned under their stoves and fridges on a monthly basis have cleaning ladies.
A week or so ago, a friend mentioned on Facebook that she’d been cleaning her ceilings. I pretty much felt like the world’s worst anything right about then. Ceilings? I mean, I consider it a good day if the laundry’s not spilling out of the laundry baskets onto the floor. If I can see my bed. If I can see the sink in the kitchen. And if I can walk on the dining room floor without maiming myself with legos and hardened food matter.
But clean ceilings. That’s a whole different level of cleanliness. One that I’m afraid I’m not able to attain at this stage of life. Well, not without the help of a cleaning lady.
But besides making me feel like an un-domestic goddess, the Facebook note guilted me into tackling the disaster that’s my oven. The oven that had roasted at least ten chickens and two enormous turkeys and baked many pizzas. It was scary inside. And each week I’d vow to clean it. And then the week would end and the oven would look the same. Or worse.
So I got the necessary (highly toxic) cleaning supplies. And I sprayed the inside of the oven during the boys’ naptime one afternoon. And I made a mental note to deal with it at a later time. But my manny hadn’t gotten a copy of the mental note. He just saw the supplies on the kitchen counter and thought it was a ‘hint’. So, being the good Samaritan that he is, he tackled the job.
And then it sort of snowballed from there. I removed the range’s bottom drawer and found this:
And, once I’d seen all that lurked under the stove, I felt compelled to clean under the fridge too.
Many minutes later, I surveyed my loot. Four toy cars, fifteen marbles, three pieces of duplo blocks, one memory card, two playing cards from two different card games, three pieces of kid-art, one dishwasher detergent cube, seven pieces of kids k’nex, a couple of decorative pebbles, a wrapped Tootsie roll candy, an Aveeno lip balm.
And, my personal favorite, the J tile from Scrabble. J is for Jenerous, after all.
Why the written inventory? Because none of it is mine. None of it. I do not play with cars. Or marbles. Or even Scrabble tiles. And I certainly don’t play with any of those things in the kitchen.
But I know people who do.