I moved home recently. Or rather I’m stay semi-permanently (lose the semi as soon as my apartment gets rented… beautiful 2nd story, castle-like apartment in Riverwest, complete with your own personal army of crawling mustaches and overabundance of heat, anyone?!). Being here with my older sister, niece and nephew has its perks – I get to see them every day, I’m never alone, there’s always something going on, and its downfalls… see perks. But I love them and being with my family is one of my most favorite things.
One of my not-so-favorite things is sweeping. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve always enjoyed sweeping, and vacuuming, for that matter (being vacuumed around, not so much… I used to get nervous my feet were going to get sucked in). It’s methodical, melodic, mindless. It’s easy, it doesn’t take long (which it should, but I’ve never been a big move-the-furniture cleaner. I tend to clean what’s visible. Out of sight, not dirty, right?).
Here in Casa de Kuopus, there is no shortage of sweeping, vacuuming, scrubbing, wiping, flushing, scooping, changing, clipping, building, pulling, loading, emptying… Thanks primarily to our zoo of two dogs, five cats, fish, bird and nugget (the bird’s baby, a dove – so ugly it’s cute), not to mention the niece (3) and nephew (9); there is shit everywhere. And I mean everywhere. There is no getting away with not moving the curio cabinet, the TV, the couch, the dishwasher, the garbage, the rugs. The list goes on and on.
But back to the sweeping. It is a necessity every single day, more than once if you can muster the energy after the list of all the other endless shit to clean. The animals are good at leaving little hair bombs all over the place, and, since it’s mostly hardwood floors, the capture and disposal of them should be easy. Right?!
Some people call the collection of hair and dust and skin, and whatever else lands on the floor, dust bunnies. Well these little mother fuckers sure do earn their name. As soon as the broom gets near them, off they go. Evasive, and oh so fast. As though being chased by the cats who made them, these dirty little leporines seek refuge anywhere but the dustpan. And it doesn’t matter how slow you sweep, they always know it’s coming.