"It ain't that deep--just pick up your stuff."

The title is a quote from an essay in a book I got for Christmas. It's a collection of essays of people writing about, as the book's title says, Dirt. Or, more fully, Dirt: The Quirks, Habits, and Passions of Keeping House. It's been interesting to see how differently people can feel about cleaning or the lack thereof. The quote is from an essay by an African American academic, whose ancestors were slaves and then domestic servants, so for her, cleaning is a very conflicted topic. What for me is just an issue of hygiene, is for her a long history of social and economic inequality and oppression. For a lot of years she resisted cleaning, reveling in dirtiness as freedom from that oppression. Then, she realized, it's just dirt.

The summer I turned 19 I worked as a maid. I was home for the summer, and nobody wanted to hire me for just three months. So, I ended up at a housekeeping service with the word "American" in the title. Which, now that I think of it, there were remarkably few Hispanics working there. But that is neither here nor there. They handed out uniforms of navy cotton shorts and blue work shirts that had snaps instead of buttons, an American flag patch sewn on one sleeve, and came in sizes large and larger. I think mine was probably an extra-larger-er. (Once my sometimes boyfriend dropped by before I'd had time to change after work, and although he was usually very kind and tactful, laughed out loud.) I'd probably rank this as the second worst job I've ever had, right in front of working for a verbally abusive Turkish woman selling, of all things, jewelery, in, of all places, a mall.  I don't really wear jewelery. I hate malls. Worst job ever.

But I can't say I wish I'd never had this job, because I learned a lot. The experiences you don't enjoy teach you the most, unfortunately. I grew up doing housework, so I knew how to clean. But on my first day, the head maid took me into the master bath. "This is how you clean a toilet." I watched her do the first bathroom, then I did the next. She pointed out all the things I missed. "Get a toothbrush and clean right up against the edge." By the end of the week I was sailing through her inspections, and by the end of the summer, I was inspecting the newbies' work. I think this was my mom's favorite of all my jobs, because when I would clean her house, I would attack random places that grime collects, like light switches and the buttons on the phone. I learned about pumice stones, and never to use Comet on natural stone. I also learned that if you spend the summer on your knees washing other people's floors by hand (mops were verboten), your knees will retain a greenish tinge for weeks from the bruises. And even if the smell of cigarette smoke makes you nauseated, people will still think you're a snob if you don't join them on a smoke break.

I learned a lot about my coworkers, yes, because I spent hours and days interacting with them. But you can also learn a lot about people from an empty house. I was glad I was stuck cleaning bathrooms the day we cleaned the house next to the church I attended growing up, because I didn't have to see--and clean around--his interesting bedroom collection. Hearing about it was enough. I also heard about, but never had to visit, the house in Layton where teenage girls would deposit used tampons on the floor, where they had just missed the garbage. I'm pretty sure that house was breeding the next generation of people who pay other people to clean up their filth.

One house I particularly remember was a home in Layton. The mom was home, with two or three young kids. She came to the door in her pajamas; she worked from home in real estate, or accounting. She was very gracious, and extremely excited about our work. And no wonder, because that place was a dump. I was kitchen maid that day, and had the unusual task of cleaning out the fridge, which was an exercise in science fair projects. Maybe when my kids get older we'll explore how many months it takes for a potato to go moldy in the fridge. I know it's got to be a while, for while I've seen many rotten potatoes, I've never seen another one so far gone it's growing white fuzz. Really, what is so important in your life that you can't throw away your own rotting food?


I was very glad to quit that job and get back to my "real life." And I'm very glad my life has taken a direction that I don't need to rely on my housekeeping skills for my income; I have the luxury of being messy if I'd like. Although I was once a professional cleaner, my house isn't professionally clean. I don't dust my light fixtures every time I clean the bathroom; I don't lemon oil my cabinets weekly. I held out for years, but I finally bought a mop. I don't inspect my husband's cleaning and point out the things he missed, like I did when we were newlyweds. But I do have respect for people who have a job to do and do it well, who take satisfaction in doing their best even in what many people would consider a menial job.

I think a lot of people would envy our clientele; who wouldn't like to not have to clean? Cleaning is a mundane job. As soon as it's done it needs to be redone. But, could I afford it, I don't think I would choose it. My life is not so important, my time not so valuable that I can't clean up my own mess. I want my kids to grow up knowing how to clean a bathroom. I want them to take ownership in their home; to know the work that goes into making a place habitable and welcoming. I hope they'll learn the satisfaction of doing any job, even the unpleasant ones, well. That's a lesson my parents worked very hard to teach me, and if it's learned right, goes far beyond the realm of putting one's socks away.

What's your coolness percentage?

Mine is eighty. I am eighty percent cool.

How do I know? Back in the lovely days of Morgan Hall, apt 203, my roommate was playing around with spreadsheets. I don't know why this was entertaining, playing around with spreadsheets and pie charts. She discovered that the percentages on a pie chart didn't have to add up to 100, so she started assigning ridiculously large numbers to the slices of her pie chart. To make a rambling story short, the result of this was that my lovely roommate Kristen and I became 80% cool. It became a running joke, and why not? It's a pretty good number.

Although, to be honest, I'm probably more like 65. I'm really not that cool. I'm okay with it; I like me. But I'm pretty sure people aren't sitting around saying, "let's have a party and invite that girl who will tell random etymology facts and correct our grammar." As far as party tricks go, I got nothing.

I think I remembered this because my best friend from high school called to invite me to a friend reunion of sorts. In high school I had this fantastic group of friends, and now some of us are getting together on Saturday. I think those that are coming are mostly all still friends, still stay in touch and do things together. And most of them I haven't seen since the last time we got together, when my son was a baby. We have a history of friendship to hold us together, but the ties are leaner than they used to be.

Maybe it's because I was one of the few who moved away for college. Maybe it's because I'm not good at keeping in touch with people I don't see very often. When I see someone after a long time, all the things that have happened in that time pile up into a chasm of nothing to say. There's so much to say, but where to start? And why does it matter?


Why do I care if these people, who I haven't really been friends with for nearly nine years, still like me? I'm a different person than I was in high school. I think I'm even a better person. But I guess I'd like these people to still tell me that I'm one of them, that I still have a spot on Steve's porch swing, where four of us would sit with Nate laying across our laps because he was the smallest. We'd swing, and stare into the Hooper twilight, and swat mosquitos, and laugh. We talked about nothing, really, because we had everything ahead of us. I'm not that person anymore, but I don't want that person to not exist. I hold on to who I used to be to assure myself that I am and am not that same person. Someone who, on a pie chart once upon a time, was deemed 80% cool.

Maybe this wouldn't be so funny if it weren't January?

I watched this several times the other day; it's on a blog I find enjoyable. I went back to see it today, and it's still ridiculously funny. To me, anyway. Even though the video was doing weird pixely things. If you like bizarrely random things and don't mind one teeny swear word, check it out.

http://www.bitethebedbugs.com/2011/01/the-great-teacup-piggie-debate/

I got a couple of books for Christmas that I've been wanting for a long time.  Thanks, Erin. And they haven't disappointed.


The first is called The Gastronomy of Marriage. It is, if you'll believe such a thing exists, a memoir about food. And it was wonderful. She talks about the relationship that food has in her relationships with her family, her fiance, and her friends. If you'd like to borrow it, feel free. I'd love for someone else to share my love for memoir.

And, like all good books should, it made me think. What's my memoir of food? What role does it play in my life? And what does it say that so often lately we've been having lazy dinners?

Food is a way to relate to others. When was the last time you had a social activity that did not at least include, if not center around, food? Food is comfort. We show friendship, concern, condolences with a plate of cookies. We eat idiosyncratic favorites when we're feeling sad. And, if I'm feeling motivated and mindful of living well, and full of goodness, I show my love for my family by making them a fabulous dinner, like chicken pot pie.

So, I've been thinking. My brain is too scattered to really get anything typed out, but I'll try later. As I've learned, you could fill a book with thinking about food. But I'm out of time now, because I've got to cook dinner for my neighbor.