Yesterday, quite inexplicably, or maybe via compulsion, I decided it was time to do some deep room cleaning. Yes, in fact it was compulsion, which occurs in me from time-to-time, but thankfully not too often. I will preface this with a quasi-friendly little saying, "Pigs, I live with pigs."
I started with the upstairs bathrooms. Living with two women, I am often struck, nay overwhelmed, by the amount of hair which accumulates on our bathroom floors. I also made the mistake of removing the drain stopper from the Devil's sink because I noted the water was exiting the sink far too slowly. The gnarled mess I found here was, in a word, disgusting. "The Hair...The Hair," I whispered to myself in this domestic Heart of Darkness. I wanted to double check to make sure neither of my housemates had suddenly become bald because there truly was an inordinate amount of hair.
Bathroom mirrors are also not much fun caked in the spittle of so many tooth fossils and brushings. Proper cleaning requires multiple applications of glass cleaner and a healthy bushel of paper towels.
And then, of course, there are the toilets. I'll leave out the gory details and simply state water closet scrubbing is among the shittiest of chores.
Next up vacuuming, where I began to notice just how dusty things like the baseboards, walls and ceilings had become. The corners of ceilings riddled with cobwebs and occasionally the abandoned homes of the spiders who constructed them.
As I pulled away beds and cedar chests and dressers and armoires, I discovered dust bunnies which would make the killer rabbit from Monty Python's Holy Grail cower in deference. These same bunnies intermingled with old dog chews instinctively buried many weeks prior, hair elastics having come loose in the night, a pair of comfy Crocs footwear long since forgotten and even a miniature baseball bat who's appearance defies logic. Or maybe it was left there to fend off the potentially rabid bunnies.
Out in the hall more dust yet. Caked along the tops of the baseboards and layered between the spindles of the banister like so much grey moss on a forest floor. All the while I start to ponder the origin of dust. The dead or decaying carcasses of various wee beasties drifting through the air and settling wherever they may until a giant sucking device comes to whisk them away. The good thing is when you start imagining the fateful journeys of microscopic specks of dust, you quickly realize it's time to take a break. The rest of the house can wait.