It was my turn to clean the place today. Funny how I would never get away with skipping a single Sunday, while the girls do it frequently, without the smallest shred of bad conscience. It is as if I’m in no position to accuse them of anything. Turbulent past, I admit, but the past is not today.
I don’t mind cleaning, though. With a bit of music on the ear, it’s as good a pastime as any. Get into the deep bit of it. Rubber glove zen and toilet brush ballet.
People and the media complain constantly about the lack of time, happiness and answers to "existential" questions. They should try manual labour.
But I don’t like tidying up after others. They are girls too, so they’ve got all kinds of crazy shit lying around. Gloss for lips, mysterious looking bottles and bag after bag with cotton. I thought girls were supposed to be tidy!? The facts oppose.
Girls are pigs.
It’s only when it comes to personal hygiene that they take the lead, spending hours in the bathroom shaving themselves in a divine concentration matching that of the great painters. Especially when you really need to use the bathroom. But that’s all right, I just go in the sink.
Anyway, here are their shoes:
Oh, wait. That was only one of the girls’ shoes. Here’s the rest:
See that? We are talking about two girls here. Not twenty, not eight, but two. Two people with one pair of feet each, summing up to four feet in total, unless I’ve missed something extraordinary. The myth is true, then. No denying it now. Photographic evidence.
When confronted with this, girl 1 explained to me that these were the most important shoes. Important shoes? What have they done to become so important that they block the freeway from my room to the kitchen? Anyway, these were only the important shoes. The Rest of Them were stacked in custom made boxes under her bed.. I know she’s got a double bed, and I bet it’s for that very reason.
These are my shoes:
Catch my drift? They are all-around mountain shoes, and in addition to this pair, I’ve got one pair of all-around joggers, and one pair of all-around sandals. Winter, fall & spring, summer. All-around. I can remember a couple of nice shoes in a box somewhere in the back of the closet were no man dare venture, but I can’t remember wearing them since the occasion for which they were bought. When I was fourteen years old.
Now, I’m all pro being biped and all. Picking up a kebab after a night out would be kind of hard if you were doing it on all four. You’d get halal sauce and corn everywhere. Believe me, I’ve tried.
But there’s a rational limit to how much you can show that off. The bonobos, or pygmy chimpanzees if you like, walks very frequently on two legs. Here’s a video. Do they brag, though? Hardly. They’re almost extinct, even.
"Be quiet", she said in that kind of way only a woman can do. It essentially means that the matter at hand is in no way debatable any further. It is, in fact, far away from the realm of normative questioning.
Girl 1 left. I put on Dream Theatre and commenced the vacuuming and the cleaning. When you’re hung over, the vacuum machine is an intricate, technical device, and hard to handle. It’s like a living thing with a mind of its own. Like a giant anaconda. And just like all the friendly snakes in the world, it wants to give you a hug from the moment it spots you. A good, long hug. Right, that’s enough. Enough now, snake. SNAKE!
In comes girl 2. Don’t listen to Irish music when you’re cleaning. It’s too hard to get the moves right with the river dance and all. Good, old-fashioned head banging on the other hand..
Oh, she was talking to me.
– Can you do the baseboards too?
That’s one thing I never could understand. Why do you have to clean where there’s no chance for any human being in his or her right mind to admire your work? Why destroy perfectly fine spider habitat? Me supreme being. Me protect all life.
..I’m such a pushover.
Getting into it, though, I started doing all the impenetrable areas, then I did the roof – for no reason whatsoever – and lastly I did the stove. Fucking gold-medal in house cleaning. After two hours and a half, having put up the laundry I’d had in the washer simultaneously with all of the above, I exhaled deeply and admired my masterpiece.
<Ventura>This house is clear now.</Ventura>
Everything smelled of pine forest.
Fresh and shiny. Girl 2 re-entered and was astonished.
"This looks really good," she complimented.
Uhuh. Sex now, please? I didn’t say it out loud.
Sex now? Backrub? Anything, please? Mercy? Hello?
I don’t know about you, but a freshly cleaned, pine-forest smelling parquet always makes me think about getting naked and having sex on it. Must be lumberjack within.
Now. I had to explain to girl 1 why I was taking photos of their shoes. After all, I wouldn’t want her suspecting me of having some sort of foot fetish. So it’s a fair chance she’s found the blog, and is reading this. If you are, M, let me assure you that everything is purely fictional, and nothing of this really happened. Especially the mental images of getting busy on the shiny pine-forest parquet. Especially that.
And why did you skip last week’s washing, eh? It was your week according to the all-authoritative list on the fridge. If this goes on, I’m gonna have to impose some kind of sanctions, say, sell all of your shoes. All but three all-around pairs. I’m gonna keep an eye on this situation. It’s a message to all of you lazy people.
Don’t mess with the friggin’ Jif master.