11 July 2003
bleach

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Hi."

"Hi, it's me."

"So, how are you?"

"Good..."

Pause.

"Hey, I have to ask you a question."

"What's that?"

"Hmm. What's the best way to clean a kitchen floor?"

"Oh."

"Cause I got a bucket of hot water, right, and some of that soap with bleach in it and I'm on my hands and knees with a scrubby pad but there's still little bits of gunk that I can't get up."

I could hear my father interjecting his opinion in the background.

"Hm. Dad says use Mr. Clean."

"Well, I'm kind of limited on my cleaning supplies...all I have is that Finast brand stuff."

I used to say Fine-Assed just to amuse myself.

"Well, I guess just do what you're doing, then."

Right now all I wished for was two things: one of those little razor-blades-on-a-stick that all the janitors had at the Port Authority to scrape gum off the floors, and a roommate who did not constantly shed her long, dark curly hairs all over the house.

"Okay. This stuff is really drying out my hands. I smell like bleach."

Not an entirely pleasant smell, but it sure beat eau de rotting food.

"Well, do you have something lemon-scented to counteract it?"

I thought of all the parts of the world that were dying so that I could have a clean kitchen floor.

"Nope. Don't worry about it. I'll burn a candle or something."

Pause.

"So, truly I have become my mother's daughter."

I could almost hear the smile in her voice.

"Yep."

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