I bought a broom yesterday.
Accompanied by a dustpan and some dish soap.
You know, the kind used for *gasp* washing dishes.
Which naturally, implies to some extent that I actually perform this sacred ritual called something to the effect of “housekeeping.”
An unfamiliar tasting term in my mouth.
What is this laundry detergent of which you speak?
A laundry room virgin, I struggle to categorize my lights from my darks cursing myself for buying so many patterned clothes that complicate the situation like a high school relationship. Not quiet declaring the commitment to either category.
Unable to decipher the lint-lined dryer, I brought my soaking laundry up to my room and lay it out over every available surface. Dripping and drenching my entire linoleum floor as it curls up at the edges, creating an ideal hiding place for stale bread crumbs and cast off watermelon seeds.
Crouching by the sink removing lord knows what from the drain, I can’t help but think that I don’t remember signing on the dotted line of responsibility.
I guess it just happened somewhere between buying healthy granola and nonfat yogurt.
I never used to contemplate about things like bed sheets and wash rags, they just always were.
Like paperclips and staples and rubber bands.
In the drawer, beneath the expired pizza coupons.
But I never knew that when you rent an apartment, all you’re really renting is the walls.
All four of them held together by a ceiling, and floor and a cold water shower.
Turns out the freeway noise is a bit of a bonus.
Thrown in there for good measure.
But laying in my bed at night, watching the streetlights glow onto the appliances, my appliances and my olive oil and half consumed cereal boxes, I realize that it’s all so completely and totally one hundred and ten percent worth it.
Until realization dawns that I’ve yet to clean the toilet.
That might put things into perspective.