|"Just think, we could run away to a place where there was no dusting. And if there was, we could use your sleeves."|
I hate to break it to you guys, but we're all living under a giant, disgusting pile of dirt.
Yes, even you.
Oh, you're not? Fine. When was the last time you cleaned your ceiling fans? I'll wait...
Let me just go pull my quiche out of the oven.
Right, that job sucks so none of us do it. (I was also joking about the quiche because the thought of baking this early in the morning is hilarious to me and I own zero ramekins.)
Granted, there's probably a token person here today who habitually wipes down the blades, but maybe that's because you forgot you could just stop looking up.
This moving thing is wearing on me and we haven't even moved yet. Or bought a new house. Or put this one up for sale. We're on task 8,053 of 11,787, and inching closer to our goal every day, but, unfortunately, that means deep cleaning has become the name of the game.
Deep cleaning. The phrase turns to ash on my tongue. I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues.
Good. The biggest drag of it all was having to tell the kids no pool today and to go stare at each other in another room. As it turns out, fan cleaning takes a certain sort of concentration which required me to learn how to keep my balance while children ran into the broken chair I was standing on, and an immunity to the abject filth that flies off in one's face. Don't worry though, I was using an old rag that trapped almost nothing.
Upon scaling your perch, the thing that hits you first is how long it's been since you cleaned that particular fan.
I did some quick calculation. "Hey, kids. How old are you?"
It'd been four years.
Or possibly never.
The next thing I had to process was the density of the dirt as I tried desperately to shove it off each blade. "By Ashton Kutcher's trucker hat, this must be a foot deep. I think I just inhaled it. Is that a snowman? It's a snowman made of dirt. When it falls clockwise on the carpet, it means Winter's coming early. Or that I have to vacuum now."
If you have particularly old fans like we do, the key to a good, deep clean is not losing your balance and clinging to them for dear life.
"Mommy's fine. Thankfully the wiring's still in tact. We're patching holes anyway. As you were."
"Was this one always crooked?"
"That's why the seventies ended. Couldn't make sturdy ceiling fans. Remember that when people ask you if I ever taught you history of any sort."
After you get brave enough to inspect all the nooks and crannies, you realize the frosted glass globes over the light bulbs could also use a wipe down.
But you don't care.
And they're so hot.
And, again, you don't care because you didn't lose your life in the last paragraph.
So what's the point? The point is that you, I and everyone else are living under horrific dunes of dust bunnies, but it's not worth dying over. But maybe it is because no one will buy your house if you don't climb back up there.
Maybe I'll just bribe whoever it is with a quiche.
Until Next Time, Readers!