Slice of Pink

Squeaky Clean

With the exception of the kitchen table, currently covered in research papers and post-it notes, our apartment is pretty darn clean. And it's just getting cleaner.

I have a very simple resolution for 2008, a resolution that I forced upon my husband as well. We are going to spend 10 minutes a day, every day, cleaning. And not just cleaning--cleaning fast and efficiently, on a timer, no dilly-dallying allowed. 10 minutes, moving fast. That's all. We set the timer for 10, work like mad, and when the timer starts beeping, we're done.

We've done this before and, in the beginning, it seems like the 10-minute plan could never work. But after a few days of quick and efficient 10-minute clean-up, things start to get clean. After a few more days, things start to get shiny. And, pretty soon, you start having to look for things to clean--behind bookcases, under sinks, the top of the fridge.

I know, 10 minutes doesn't seem like very much time. But 10 minutes times 2 people is 20 minutes. And 20 minutes times 7 week days is 140 minutes. And 140 times 52 weeks is a whopping, what? 7,280 minutes, which is almost too much of life spent cleaning.

You can even get a load of laundry in and--if you're fast enough--a load put away. But that takes practice.

Epiphany

How to have a clean house: invite people to visit.

Anthony and Amanda came to stay this weekend and, after two months, we finally unpacked the last of the boxes, put a shower curtain up in the guest bathroom, organized the office into a livable space, and put some artwork on the walls.

And we celebrated by drinking beers as big as your head. Out. Because why dirty a glass when you finally got everything sparkling clean?

Actually, us ladies drank cheap red wine mixed with Pepsi. Because we were creative with the meager offerings of a pizza joint. Also, we are classy.

Happy 24th to Amanda! And thank you for forcing us to get it together and finally unpack the boxes that, for two solid months, occupied the guest room bathtub.

Dirty Laundry Revisted

For the first time since we've been married--or better yet, for the first time since I moved out of my mother's house in 1999--we finally have a washer and dryer right in our apartment. No laundry room to go to. No time schedule to follow. No stupid plastic card or quarters to find. No more going commando.

We are washing everything! Clothes! Sheets! Blankets! Rugs! Pillows! Jackets! We have run out of things to wash, we've washed so much. Where the laundry used to pile up, there is now a gaping void.

Send your laundry on over. We have a washer and we ain't afraid to use it.

Whistling Dixie

Oprah is always talking about AHA! moments, those moments when you realize you've found an answer to life or have a flash of pure understanding.

I had an AHA moment the other day, and it may not be Oprah quality, but it is changing my life.

AHA!: Dixie Cups.

I like a cup of water by my bed. Before my AHA! moment, I would carry a glass of water upstairs and set it on my nightstand. The next night I would carry another glass of water upstairs and set in on my nightstand. I'd repeat this until there were three or four glasses of water on my nightstand, at which point I would move them to the bathroom sink and start placing more glasses on my nightstand. On Saturday, or whenever I decided to clean up the upstairs, I would precariously balance all the glasses and mugs in a stack and carry them down to the dishwasher.

Why, you ask, couldn't I just take the glasses downstairs each day? My husband asks the same question and the answer is: I don't know. I am sorry. I just can't remember to do that. It is the same deficiency that makes me leave out the peanut butter after I put it on my toast.

But then, after four years of piles of glasses and mugs, I had my AHA! moment and I bought a box of Dixie Cups and a Dixie Cup Dispenser and Voila! No more piles of dishes in the bedroom. I can just put the Dixie Cups right into the trash. Poof! Problem Solved!

I need y'all to share your AHA! tricks and tips so I don't have to wait another 4 years for an AHA! moment. AHA! it up.

Slumber Party

For the past two nights, my house has been completely bombarded by teenagers. They are part of a charity organization touring the state and raising money for the Teddy Bear Cancer Foundation. As a former member of the organization, and with my sister-in-law currently involved in the organization, I invited the girls to stay here for a couple of nights as they travel throughout the state.

Having ten teenagers here means: soda spilled on the carpet, many empty pizza boxes, clothes covering every possible surface, potato chips crunched into the carpet, fast food bags on the coffee table, wet bathing suits in the shower, and the rearrangement of furniture to make room for sleeping bags, pillows, suitcases, dress bags, and many pairs of shoes.

The thing is this: before they arrived, I spent several hours cleaning, making every surface sparkle and shine and vacuuming every inch of floor space. I have no idea why I did this. Teenagers do not care about how tidy the fridge is, so long as there is some Dr. Pepper in there.

Observation

If you put things into the washing machine that say "dryclean only" they kind of come out smelling like wet dog. Totally wearable, as long as you don't mind the smell.

I Left My Heart

Usually, the piles of endless dirty clothes are caused by my laziness and my great hatred of laundry. Not today. Today I worked hard to get the laundry done and the fact that it is not done is not my fault, this once. At 6:30pm, I stood in line at Costco purchasing the wrong ink cartridge for my printer and I asked the cashier if I could get a roll of quarters. The cashier said she didn’t have any, but that I might check with Membership Services. At 6:50pm, I stood in the line at Membership Services and they informed me that they could not, in fact, make change.

At 7:20pm, I stood in line at Target to buy bleach and contact paper and, again, asked if I could get a roll of quarters. The Target cashier told me that she could not make change, but that I might try at guest services. At 7:35pm, I stood in line at guest services and, well, you get the point. No quarters, no clean clothes. I can't do laundry because nobody will give me a roll of quarters! And you know they've got them.

Our weekend jaunt to San Francisco was marvelous, because San Francisco is marvelous. We went to an Oakland Athletics game on Friday night and they let us on the field to walk where all the great Athletics have played ball. Would you look at that:

Right on the field.

The grass where many great Athletics have stood. Like, um, you know, um, Babe Ruth?

The Angels used to be my favorite team, but I am fickle where baseball is concerned and the Angels never let me on their field, so screw ‘em. Unless they win and go to the playoffs because I am totally for the winners. Fickle.

There was also the wedding. The Wedding. I don’t know what to say about The Wedding except that I am pretty sure that my salary this year wouldn’t cover the cost of The Wedding. And you can’t even hate Gina and James for having the perfect wedding with the perfectly delicious filet mignon and the 400 perfect, giant gold bows on each of the 400 perfectly draped chairs and the perfectly breathtaking three-foot centerpieces and the wine that never ended, not even after I poured half a glass on my blue silk skirt and should have been CUT OFF. You can’t hate them because they are two of the most kind and generous people on the face of the freakin’ planet and are perfectly perfect together.

I took the picture of James and Gina with my left hand while in my right hand I held my fourth glass of red wine. Sorry, it was the best I could do under the circumstances. It’s a good thing I don’t, like, teach photo or anything.

A flower, because when you are drunk you can always count on the flowers to hold really still for a photograph.

And the Golden Gate Bride which is weirdly attached to our heads. That, my friends, is called a background merger and it is not a good thing.

Operation Sparkle

Yesterday my mom looked in my microwave and dramatically exclaimed, “Oh, Janet, you cannot live like this.”

I can’t understand how somebody can get so melodramatic over a little splattered barbeque sauce, but it must have really disturbed her because she showed up today with a mop, some rags, and a big bottle of Pine-Sol and set to work like some Army General running a Spic and Span Boot Camp.

She made me clean. She made me scrub. She made me wash and fold and vacuum. She made me move furniture so I could vacuum under it.

Y’all, she made me put my hand in the toilet.

This was cleaning that was so serious that I did not wear my new polka dotted apron because it would have totally gotten dirty.

As I was folding (Keep folding! Keep folding!), my mom was cleaning behind my bedside table where she found a drinking straw that was the vestige of some beverage that I was probably drinking while reading in bed (I drink absolutely everything with a straw).

She held up the straw and inquired, “Are you using cocaine?”

Funny, she was way more dramatic about the dirty microwave than the cocaine.