Needed, One Power Washer

This morning the mold in the bathroom said, "You have a big butt."

Confronted with talking filth, I have three options: Start taking my meds again. Cut back on the doughnuts. Or clean house.

Things domestic have never been my forte. Blame it on my mother. We can still blame shit on our mothers, can't we? Anyway, Mom didn't exactly knock herself out turning me into a paragon of domestic perfection, although the effort would have been on par with turning a tiger into a vegetarian.

Mom is/was one of them evil working moms, as so decreed by Tom De-Jailhouse-Boy-Toy--Lay. Rather than teach her daughter how to catch a man with a great casserole, she was climbing the corporate ladder. She's now a fancy-schmanzy division director who goes on boondoggles, I mean, attends conferences.

This coming week she's got a conference in Albuquerque. Instead of booking a hotel, she will be staying with us and saving her per diem to purchase a sleek, brown cabana boy on her next trip to Cancun. Because we live in a kitschy bedroom community of Albuquerque, she can let her friends think she's staying in a stately adobe hacienda surrounded by cottonwoods and a herd of champion Arabian horses. (Reality: a matchbox with windows, surrounded by a dead car on blocks, tumbleweeds and one opinionated, scruffy Arabian horse.)

Despite her inability to raise a maid, she's a clean freak. Mom glories in a clean house.

Meanwhile, the mold in our guest bathroom has gone beyond destroying your body image. It tells stories, some of them good. I'm thinking of ghost writing its novel.

I have to clean house.

This includes washing the Rat Dog. Her little beard has congealed into crunchy Rastafarian tresses. And yesterday, the Greyhound peed on her. (Pees on the couch; pees on the Rat Dog; lovely dog.) Must be an interesting way to declare ownership--pull down trou and let loose. Imagine doing that the next time you go car shopping. "I'll take the red one." Zip. Shppssssssss!.

My mom is so clean-obsessed she can't stand to let a cast iron skillet "season." She makes her bed every day, and she puts distilled water in her teakettle to avoid hard water crust.

The crust at the bottom of our teakettle is thicker than the Earth's. When we're not looking, she tries to clean our teakettle. So today, in honor of Mom's arrival, we gave up and bought a new teakettle. Too bad we can't buy a new house.

I'm thinking a high-pressure washer might be just the ticket for douching out our filthy home.

Have a great Sunday.