Wait, wait! Don't wash me.

Sadly today I say goodbye to the ancient Kenmore. Sadly because it handled giant loads and saw me through the heavy tie-dye textile art and sweaty teen son era.  Sad, also $pending money on $omething so grown-up and boring.  Waving goodbye right to left, as the Kenmore lid opened to the left. Body memory must be retrained because the new washer opens front to back.

For way too long sweaters have whispered, "Don't wash me in hot," from deep in the laundry hamper.  The Kenmore refused to fill with cold water no matter the threats or incentives.

W is the letter of the week.  Waiting for washer delivery?  The Home Depot delivery guys were great.  In a 10-2 window they called at 9:40, arrived at 10:02, and were gone by 10:07.  I'd gotten up early to clear a path for them.  The condo is a skinny place with many obstacles.

Wow what filthy floors you have! Red Riding told wolf to trot on over to Albertsons for some Swiffer wets.  There were creepy/fuzzy things under that old washing machine, predating our move into this condo in 2000.



Staying wide awake for Mavs NBA Finals games has been wicked difficult.  Flashbacks to childhood piano lessons were even worse ...  Go down to the levee.  I said to the levee....  Had to sing to myself, "It's simply great, mate, waiting for  the Dirk Nowitzki."
I sang a worse verse about Wiley and the turkey meat treats. Welcome, my new grandpuppy!  Isn't Wiley just the smartest widdle wuzzum?

Wait, wait!  A month ago I walked without a pedestrian green toward the old NPR headquarters.  Did the ATM dispense Morning Edition mugs?

Wonder of wonders, my opera buddy found discount tickets to the Bruce Wood Dance Project performance tomorrow evening.  I'm whirling in anticipation!

Agitating.

Rinsing.

Spinning.

Way cool!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

The Birds and the Bees

Welcome to seventh grade Home Economics class at Millard Lefler Junior High School. This is the talk you've all been dreading and anticipating. I'm sorry to say the film strip projector is broken, so we won't have much in the way of audio-visual enhancements for this lecture.

Ahem. I trust I have received signed permission slips from all your parents and adult guardians. Well, then...

It is time you knew the whole, unvarnished truth about cross-Swiffernation. Don't do it! Don't even think about it! Go wash your hands!

You can't successfully substitute Pledge Grab-It Wet orange sheets for Swiffer Wet sheets. The Grab-Its keep detaching from the Swiffer mop, and trailing off impotently somewhere between the laundry room and the kitchen floor. A higher power is letting us know that cross-Swiffernating is an abomination and an anathema, and won't get that spilled juice off the linoleum.

Thank heaven we've got Dubya in charge on the bridge of the Enterprise! He won't deviate from his course due to a few minor cobwebs in the sunbeams. He knows the sacred institution of Swifferage is at stake in these murky cultural floor wars. Swiffering is only for the union of one Swiffer mop and one Swifferette (or Swiffer Wet):

To encourage right choices, we must be willing to confront the dangers young people face -- even when they're difficult to talk about. Each year, about 3 million teenagers get expensive Nike shoes stuck on their cross-Swiffergenated kitchen floors... In my budget, I propose a grassroots campaign to help inform families ...Decisions children now make can affect their health and character for the rest of their lives. All of us -- parents and schools and government -- must work together to counter the negative influence of the culture, and to send the right messages to our children. A strong America must also value the institution of Swifferage defined under federal law as a union of a Swiffer mop and a Swiffer Wet (Registered Trademark)...

"Birds do it. Bees do it. Even educated fleas do it. Let's do it, let's fall in love." Cole Porter

Rite of Spring Weekend

Taxes and cleaning made up most of my weekend, and I had that splendid sense of accomplishment and relief I get when I've finally behaved like a grown-up and bit the bullet. Today was a time for rewarding myself with artistic refueling.

As I performed my solo piece, "Interpretive Dance with Swiffer Duster," through the condo in my spring green leotard and tights* Saturday I decided I needed musical accompaniment to cover the sounds of creaking knees and scare the spiders away before I whacked the cobwebs. Ah, yes. Stravinsky. Pagan frenzy with new furnace filter and vacuum cleaner bag!

A few years back I read Howard Gardner's book, Creating Minds, about Stravinsky, Einstein, Freud, Martha Graham, Picasso, Eliot, and Gandhi. The seven subjects illustrate Gardner's theory of seven types of intelligence, as well as his pondering of the sources and price for creative genius. I do not think any of these people followed instructions for fluffing their Swiffer Duster "like it's never been fluffed".

So, what Stravinsky should I hear? Was there one cd I could buy with my gift certificate that would do the cleaning frenzy and educate me about this genius? I put the question to my panel of experts--family and friends on my email list. I put weird questions to them all the time, so this is nothing new. When I asked for input about Igor they probably thought I meant I-gor from "Young Frankenstein". Anyway, they sent wonderful responses. Perhaps my panel of experts would rather write their thoughts and memories about Stravinsky than participate in those other rites of spring--cleaning and taxes.

And yes, I spent the gift certificate on a double cd of the London Symphony Orchestra, Claudio Abbado conducting.

*Okay, this part is fiction. You can relax and erase that scary mental image.

Swiffer cult update

Just over a year ago this blog correspondent went under cover, DEEP under a cover of dust and grime, to report to you about the cult of Swiffervangelism that had sucked my sister into its clutches. I am just back from Nebraska with an update on the growing influence of the cult. Dan Rather is my inspiration, as I would rather blog than actually use my new Swiffer Duster with extendable handle. It looks so pristene straight out of the box!

My real sister, Sister Mary Swifferetta, has brought my dad along into the Swiffer lifestyle. He's got cleaning gizmos for the toilet, and for the bath and shower. He's got the duster, and I have to admit the Swiffer Duster does some serious dusting without stirring up particulate matter.

Just as a test, not as a rabid new convert or anything like that, I got a Swiffer Duster with extendable handle for the condo. It is out of the box, and I have watched the online demo "Fluff your Duster like its never been fluffed". This demo should be sung by Isaac Hayes now that he's off "South Park". It's a little bit "Shaft" and a little bit "Ghostbusters".

I'll offer more details once I have actually participated in some Swiffer Duster frenzy accompanied by Stravinsky!

Intrepid AutoMama Returns

"It's a flock of Monarchs! Come look!" It is so cool to work with people with similar interests and inclinations. We went to look at the flock of Monarch butterflies migrating to Mexico past our patio.

Monarchs are usually kind of ditzy, lazy flyers, a bit like the kite that you can't quite get up and going. They can take their time since birds know that they taste even worse than okra. They don't migrate in a tight V goose formation, but they weren't flying down low where I expected them. Hundreds of Monarchs were indeed flying over our school Thursday morning, up so high it was hard to see them. [That might be partly because my sinus congestion was a day away from me seeing lots of spots.] They weren't close together, but they were surprisingly businesslike.

My point, perhaps, is that we expect to find things where they usually are, doing what they usually do. When they don't behave as expected, they can be mighty hard to see.

This brings me to my son's 1998 Dodge Intrepid. Wanna buy it???



The Intrepid has been parked in my carport while he's putting on the Ritz in Italy and the surrounding continent. At first I moved the Intrepid every week or so, from one parking space to another, but the battery died about a month ago. I actually dusted the exterior once, and had planned to Swiffer it soon. Instead, I got word that I had to move it out of the carport before tomorrow because the painting of my building will begin in the morning.

Clicked my ruby slippers together, and went out to try to start the darn Dodge. No luck. Just then Invisible Guy arrived home. I moved in next door to Invisible Guy in July 2000, and we have spoken exactly ten times. If we happen to drive in at the same time, he jumps out of his car and runs into his condo.

It must have been the frustration and pseudoephedrine talking, but I jumped out of the Intrepid as he jumped out of his car, and babeled, "Hey, ____, they are going to start painting tomorrow, and we have to move our cars. My son is in Italy and his car won't start because the battery is dead." Then I did a really impressive rib-rattling round of coughing.

Invisible Guy said it might be possible to push the Intrepid across the parking lot, then he started to make a break for his front door. I coughed some more. He got out some jumper cables, but they wouldn't reach from either his car or my Buick parked outside the carport. He rigged up two sets of jumper cables, and got a Dr. Frankenstein look in his eyes. Alas, I looked more like Marty Feldman than either Madeline Kahn or Teri Garr. I popped the hood on the Intrepid.

"What the...? Where's the.....?," we both muttered. The car had no battery! Okay, it seemed, appeared, to have no battery. It had no battery in a place one might expect to find a battery, like under the hood. This was not going to be as easy as the Buick headlight. Invisible Guy was still ready to shock the monster to life. "We don't need to find the battery," he said. "This is where to hook the positive and negative jumper cables." Indeed, there were flaps so marked. I could hear Frau Blucher laughing in the background. We zapped the monster, and got the car moved across the parking lot without pushing it, thank heaven.

I'm not going to attempt to replace the Intrepid battery, even though I did find where it was hiding. This is what I learned about Intrepid batteries from Mopar and epinions.com:

I had a 1998 Dodge Intrepid, but after hearing all of the problems that happen when those hit 60,000 miles, I decided to trade it in since I was starting to have problems of my own with mine. After all, in a Dodge Intrepid it takes at least an hour to change the battery because you have to take the front wheel off, remove the wheelwell and then pull the battery out. Saturn's are pretty easy for the everyday person to work on, unlike the Intrepid where in order to replace the main belt you have to take the whole front end of the car apart.

It is very difficult to change the battery in this car. You have to hope that when the battery goes, you are at home as you have to remove the tire and the wheelwell to get the battery out. You don't want to be doing this in a parking lot.

The only problem I see with the engine is that if you need to change the battery for any reason you had better know what you are doing. The battery is not in its ?normal? place. It is located in a compartment in front of the tire in the right front fender and is accessible through the engine compartment. I will just bring it in to the shop to get the battery changed if I need that.

Anti-Spandex

Spandex exercise requires changing clothes and taking showers, and often driving to a gym or pool to work out. It's not that I dislike exercise, but that I'm opposed to excessive clothes-changing and showers.

When my walking buddy phoned this morning, I croaked and snarled that my throat was raw and I was going back to sleep. Once I did get my motor going an hour later, I considered driving over to the mall for some air-conditioned dork-walking. Wandering out to the kitchen to make coffee and poached eggs, I discovered that the package of chix boobs I was thawing in the fridge had leaked all over. Gross! My mom would be horrified. Time to clean and disinfect!

An hour later I had taken all the food out, and removed and washed all the parts of the fridge, even ones I never knew were removable. Stood on the stepstool and cleaned the top of the fridge.

Another hour, and I had pulled the refrigerator out. Mopped the floor underneath. Vacuumed the fuzzy dust off the back and pulled off the back panel to vacuum the dust-packed innards. Emptied the beverage storage cart next to the fridge (one of the best $21.95 purchases I ever made), and washed it in the shower. Started the self-clean cycle on the oven, and washed the burner drip-pans. The Ventures and the Spencer Davis Group were in the cd player, and I was doing the Swim, the Pony, the Frug, and the Limbo as cleaning fumes altered my reality.



Another hour for cleaning the counters, the inside and out of the microwave and toaster oven, and removing the glass globes of the dining area light fixture to wash. Up stepstool, down stepstool. Feel the burn!



By now I had entered that rare primitive berserko cleaning rhythm where no grime is safe. I vacuumed baseboards and under the oven. I cleaned the counter backboards (or are they backsplashes?) with Clorox disinfecting wipes that work better than anything I've ever used. I was in The Zone! Don't stop me now! I put Old English on all the cupboard doors. Hauled trash bags to the dumpster. Swiffered Dry and Swiffered Wet. Cleaned the exhaust fan.

Would I clean more often if it required a day-glo Spandex outfit? Hardly. Do I feel ten pounds lighter? You bet!

On Beyond Swiffer

Last January my sister did her best to brainwash me into joining the cult of Swiffervangelism to which she belongs. Like the causes and creeds of many who have try to bring me into their chosen fold, Swiffervangelism sort of grazed me and bounced off. It's been almost six months, and already I'm on my second package of Wet Swiffer amazing disposable mop cloths. I'll have to buy my second Dry Swiffer on my next trip to the store. At twelve Swiffs per package... six months... I'm up to cleaning the kitchen floor twice a month. Bet that wasn't what either my sister or HomeMadeSimple had in mind.


You could say I just go to church for the music. This is the
Top Three Dry Swiffer Countdown:


This Week's Newcomer to the Charts
Dry Swiffer Hit Number Three

Got a good reason for taking the easy way out
Got a good reason for taking the easy way out now

She was a Dry Swiffer, a one way ticket yea
It took me so long to find out, and I found out

She’s a degreaser, she took me half the way there
She’s a degreaser, she took me half the way there now...

Dry Swiffer, yea
Dry Swiffer, yea



Dry Swiffer Hit Number Two

I told you ’bout living in the u.s. of a.
Don’t you know that I’m a Swiffer of rooms
Let me tell you people that I found a new way
And I’m tired of all this talk about brooms
And the same old story with a new set of words
About the dirt and the lint on the floor
And the times keep on changin’
So I’m keepin’ on top
Of every cat who tracks dirt through my door

I'm a DrySwiffer
Bet you weren't ready for that
I'm a DrySwiffer
I'm sure you know where it's at
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah



Dry Swiffer Top Tune of All Time


DrySwiffer, he's the mop, the mop with the Midas touch
A spider's touch
Such a SlySwiffer beckons you to enter his web of dust
But don't you trust

Golden words he will pour in your ear
The white glove test you needn't fear,
But a mother-in-law proves that she's the SpySwiffer
It's the swiff of death for Mister DrySwiffer


[Having a cleaner kitchen floor still hasn't earned me a ride in 007's Aston Martin.]



So far, Wet Swiffering only has one song, and it is kind of a downer:


WetSwiffer, WetSwiffer,
Mop up that splash,
Dissolve that old chunk
Of congealed goulash.
WetSwiffer, WetSwiffer
Erase that ew-yuk,
And make me a perfect cook (while you're at it)


WetSwiffer, WetSwiffer,
You won't need a pail
To get rid of black heel marks
And sticky spilled ale.
Shine up my floor for I'm longing to be,
The envy of all I see.


What would Dr. Seuss think about Swiffer?
After all, Mr. Sneelock is one of my friends. He'll probably help out doing small odds and ends. Little odd jobs he can do with such ease. Would he do the darn Swiffering if I say, "Please"?

The fine print:

Goldfinger - Artist: Shirley Bassey - peak Billboard position # 8 in 1965 - title song from the James Bond movie starring Sean Connery, Gert Frobe as Goldfinger, Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore, and Harold Sakata as Odd Job - Words and Music by Lesley Bricusse, Anthony Newley and John Barry.

"Space Cowboy" from Brave New World, Steve Miller Band, released June 1969 by Capital Records.

1965 1971

The Great Turtle Mother Swiffers the Kitchen Floor

A soccer friend sent me a link to a doll hobbyist's convention, of all things. One of the award-winning dolls was called, "The Great Turtle Mother Meets Yoda".


I could be the Great Turtle Mother. I haven't actually met Yoda, but I have survived three sons' sci-fi phases, including the most annoying "Star Trek Deep Space Nine" phase. This was the extreme hanta virus version of "Trouble With Tribbles". The acting was so horrible it could have been performed by owl pellets with more emotion and credibility. And the costume/mutation design was done by a brother-sister team of psychos: one did the facial tattoos on old Barbie dolls by heating pushpins with a lighter; the other melted and merged GI Joes and Happy Meal toys with a magnifying glass out on the summer Texas sidewalk.

The Great Turtle Mother Does Luke's Laundry. The Great Turtle Mother is really tired of discussing college plans with Luke Skywalker. Sure he wants to become a Jedi knight or go to Starfleet Academy, but it's difficult flipping burgers with a light saber and the Force. The Great Turtle Mother is sick of doing her Captive Galapagos Tortoise Eating Iceberg Lettuce impersonation.

The Great Turtle Mother Stepped in Something Sticky on the Kitchen Floor. When my sister got me that introductory Swiffer set of dry-sweeping and wet-mopping cloths back in January, she probably thought the packet would get me through February. The Great Turtle Mother Is Not All That Worried About Grimy Disturbances in the Force/Floor. Yoda and I discussed it, and just decided not to go barefoot in the kitchen. Before we go buy more Swiffer cloths we are going to stop off at Mos Eisley's Cantina.

Tom Jones

What's that sticky goo? Woah, woah!
What's that sticky goo? Woah, woah!

Kitchen floor, kitchen floor
I've spent hours and really scoured
Still new sticky goo
So go out and Swiffer your seriously sticky gross kitchen floor!

Swiffervangelism

A new cult is running amok in this country, and I am sad to report that my sister is a convert. While we were both in Lincolnland she passed up no opportunity to preach on the miracles of both Wet and Dry Swiffering, with personal testimonials about how Swiffer had changed her life and turned her unwayward kids into model citizens of The Tidy Future.

I'm sort of a housekeeping agnostic. I knock down really scary cobwebs with a contraption we call the dead-cat-on-a-stick. I have a groovy domestic tool for dusting the ceiling fans that looks like the Fuller Brush Man hung out with Barry Bonds.

My preferred kitchen floor cleaning method is the Texas Toe Mop. Years in the art room cleaning up dribbled paint have led me to this Two-step. I throw a damp towel on the linoleum and swab it around. Anything too small to trip me is too trivial to bend over and pick up in my book.

It's not velour, it's dust!

2300 hours---Noticed homeland obscurity on every surface. Was it as thick and plush as the red shag carpet in my 1977 apartment? 'Fraid so. Does the enemy wish to lull us into fluffy complacency in the face of a parental visit? Must snap out of it!

0800 hours---Embarked on Operation Lysol Liberty. Was I excited? You bet! Was Rummy on hand to provide play-by-play and color? Or off trying to spin confusion from clarity?

0900 hours---Elite team of one began search for Webs of Dust Encrustion. Were they in short supply? Hardly!

1000 hours---Convoy delivering Greased Lightning, Fantastic, and Windex encountered smoke screen from evil enemy vacuum cleaner belt. Would I use my complete chemical arsenal against the enemy? Would I consider a nuclear attack? Would that be safer than Scratch and Sniff?

1100 hours---Doubt entered stage left. Could I go the distance? 24-7/11-365-409? Did I have the psychological stamina, hormonal drive, and enough trash bags? Should I expect resistance from the local sofa spud residents? Duh.

1200 hours---Sixth Texas Laundry Load unit arrived at ironing checkpoint. Did Tony Blair use spray starch on dress shirts? Could the French change recessed lightbulbs?

1500 hours---Struggled against enervating heat to move $110 of groceries from armored vehicle to mess hall. Were native males available to assist? Shirley, you joke.