spic and span

I'm not the type to get on my hands and knees, rag in hand, to scour the floor. No, you can leave that to fairytale characters and domestic servants. If anything, I'm the one who is sipping on a glass of perfectly chilled chard, feet dangling from the divan, reading the New Yorker, pointing out spots that the servant has missed. I am the evil step sister. I am the one who reminds you that you really ought to rinse twice after mopping the floor with that particular cleaner.

But not today. This was the day you could have found me wiping my brow, dirt under my fingernails, cleaning the place from top to bottom, with the fervor and expediency of a guest worker whose my visa was up for renewal.

I was cleaning the floor and sideboards of my old room. Oh, Vacuum, how truly you doth suck! Oh orange-scented cleaner, how appealing! My room was cleaner than when I arrived.

So I just hope that I get the deposit back that I deserve, after that whole 2 hours of grime-to-prime improvement.

And I sit, waiting, tapping my feet.