I don't neglect my kitchen floor.
I respect its privacy, see. There's a difference. Because when you're all down there, scrubbing away, you start noticing sad little things, like spots where the scuzzy 33-yr-old linoleum is chipped and stained. The poor thing is doing its best, like it helps to have me show up and be all critical.
Full disclosure? My mom mopped the kitchen floor when she came out to stay with me in December, after the Dark Lord was born. And then it was really not high on my priority list after that. So, um, it possibly never happened again. But then the Dark Lord started crawling and I discovered that at the end of the day his knees and the tops of his feet were black. Kind of embarrassing. For him. Plus I've started sweeping up entire boxes of Cheerios multiple times a day, so the floor has pretty well lost her mystery.
So now I mop. And then? A week or so later, I mop again. Like, an additional time. I now know that when you do it more than once a quarter, the whole operation goes much faster because you don't have to change out the black water every square foot or so. I even bought a new mop head, because it turns out that once your old one turns brown it might not actually be keeping things super clean anymore. And I made sure I was doing everything right by checking with these British ladies who call me things like "dear" and "filthy begger." Also. Did you know you are supposed to store your mop with the handle pointing down to stop bacterial hanky-panky and resultant offspring? Had no idea.
|image of Kim and Aggie from The Guardian|
(Note: Lest my mother worry that the Internet thinks she never taught me how to clean, she did teach me. I just never did it, and then I forgot how to because I got brain damage from all the filth.)