A Blog of Bad Influence & Lots of Bitching About the Butcher

So, I've been reading Gone Feral, which is the continuing adventures of a mom of twins who's given up on such social conventions as, say, wearing a shirt. Today, I actually swept off the counters in my kitchen with the broom, figuring, what the fuck? I have to sweep the floor anyway. I think when you're literally sweeping your counters, you've gone feral. Also, I did that old add bleach to the mop water trick, thus ensuring that I didn't have to scrub too hard because all the dirt would just fade away from the bleach. So, the upstairs bathroom is clean, except that the tub has developed a protective layer of crud that comes off if you take your finger to it, but not if you use a sponge or a scrub brush. Of course, I am not taking my finger to the whole damned tub, which will just get dirty again. So, grow protective layer of crud. I'll take solace in the fact that underneath you is a clean tub. The kitchen is clean and the floor is even mopped. Two loads of dishes have been done and the stragglers are in the sink waiting for the dishwasher to be emptied after the floor is dry. I'm also thinking of tackling the back porch, which has become home to some coolant, an empty kitty litter container, and some dead plants. What, you may ask, is up my butt? I don't know. I never clean. Because it's fucking pointless. I scrub the tub and the Butcher gets in it and the dog hides from thunderstorms in it and people shit in the toilet and before you know it, everything needs cleaning again. Or the kitchen, which is small enough that you can stand in the middle of it and touch everything else in it. So, how does it get so dirty? Because the fucking Butcher and his yahoo friends will not throw their shit away. We have the chores split up. I do everything with linoleum; he does everything with carpet. Still, I try not to clutter up the carpeted areas. If he wants to leave his art shit all over the place, that's his business, because he has to clean it up. But the kitchen... do I get the same courtesy there? No, I don't. Most of the time I spend in the kitchen is devoted to throwing away his trash. Folks, you cannot physically get out of arm's reach of the trash can in our kitchen. It's not possible. So, why are there half-wet moldy corndog sticks in the bottom of the sink? Why is there a pizza box hidden behind the toaster oven? Why has someone put cheese wrappers in a cup on the stove? It has to be harder to find a place for all this shit on the counters than it would be to put it in the fucking garbage can. But, here's the other thing that pisses me off--and it's intimately connected to the problem of the trash all over the kitchen--he takes the garbage out every week. This is supposed to make up for the fact that the linoleum parts of the house are an ongoing and never ending pointless battle, but that the carpeted parts can really be taken care of once every week or ten days. And he does it, but he never, ever puts a new bag in the garbage can. Now, you'd think this wouldn't be a problem, because he also never puts garbage in the garbage can. EXCEPT there's always one nasty thing--a tissue full of snot, a paper towel wrapping a hairball--that he just tosses in there and so when I discover that there's no bag in the garbage can, I have to fish out that nasty thing. Seriously, America, what is the point of cleaning? It never ends. It's always gross and it's fucking thankless. When I get some money, I'm going to buy some land, build a little house out of cardboard and when it gets too dirty, I'm just going to set that motherfucker on fire. Then, I'll just build me a new one out of cardboard and repeat.