Today I fought the battle with Kitchen Beast and lost.
It seems no matter how much sponge whippery I conduct, there is just no taming it. Pots, pans, sticky unidentifiable goo...terracotta-colored tiles dotted with crumbs, cackling wickedly as they foil my plans for a tolerable level of cleanliness.
I am not talking absolutes here. There are indeed degrees of neatness. Some people have a high scum tolerance. They can overlooked days-old bread standing at attention, the plastic bag open with flies buzzing above it. Ewww.
Others scrub their floors daily for that extra sparkle.
I am neither one. I just want my feet not to crunch when I walk across the floor. Okay? It's not asking much, but it is asking something.
So when my kids dash off after lunch in a collective state of amnesia as to where the dishwasher is actually located (behind them), I get ancy. Kitchen Beast prowls beyond its cage and does a Happy Dance, knowing my upper-hand is slipping fast. I run for the wash rag, swirl around in fury and stare it down into obedience. That's usually around the time my husband gets home. Something tells me he has a secret pact with Kitchen Beast because everytime he's home, the kitchen is at its worst.
While the rest of the world mocks me for my yearning for order, my family smiles complacently and says, "Yes, Mom..." then just when I'm not looking, the dishwasher has been emptied and filled with that which had littered the countertops.
I am indeed not alone. Perhaps befriending Kitchen Beast would be the first step?
