“What’s the story with dust?”
This question was asked of me recently by Son, who I mentioned in Mad Skillz is the new owner of a nicely furnished home with flat surfaces that no doubt attract more than just compliments.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean growing up, I used to hear you complain that you were always dusting because we had oil heat and it’s not as clean as gas. Well, I have gas heat and every time I turn around something’s covered with dust.”
Damn, I knew it would catch up with me. All lies do. It was time to come clean.
“I was always complaining about dusting because the truth is I hate to dust. It’s pointless and never-ending and utterly impossible. Like cat herding.”
Son nodded in agreement. He’d been up against many foes in his time, but none as insidious and elusive as the airborne particles in his home. He ate a chicken cutlet and left my house armed with a can of furniture polish, a stack of old t-shirts, and a box of those Swiffer dusters with the little blue handle. He turned at the door with one final question for the horse’s mouth of housekeeping.
“If you’re giving me the Swiffer dusters, why do I need all these t-shirts?”
I never find Son more endearing than when he’s asking me a question I was born knowing the answer to. The way I see it, the desire to keep his home tidy far outweighs any uncertainty he might have about how to do it. This is in stark contrast to the lack of patience I feel when an adult male I share a home with feigns ignorance, or worse, really IS ignorant, about how to clean something basic like a toilet.
Back in my days before children, when it’s possible I might have lived with a guy I wasn’t married to, I recall asking my boyfriend to pitch in and clean the bathroom once in a while. He asked me what he should use. I put a can of Comet on the toilet tank and left for work. When I got home that evening, I went into the bathroom and lifted the lid to find the toilet seat covered with a layer of white powder. Dry white powder on the TOP of the toilet seat. Could a grown man actually not know how to clean a toilet? Did he think it was magic fairy dust that would miraculously scrub the bowl if he just sprinkled it all around? I couldn’t have been more annoyed if it was cocaine and he was snorting it off the seat.
“Well,” I told Son, “you need the t-shirts for when you use the furniture polish. Just cut them up into smaller pieces first. The Swiffers are for quick dusting in between polishings. Make sense?”
Son nodded attentively, and I could tell he was treating this like a school subject to be memorized and stored for future reference. He reached the end of the driveway, then stopped and turned around with the cleaners bundled in his arms.
“Did you already tell me why I’m cutting up the t-shirts, or was I in the bathroom when you said it?”
Daughter’s Fotos depict FIGMENT ’09 on Governor’s Island, a 3-day celebration of collaborative art and interactive fun. Click here for more on the outdoor sculpture garden that will remain season-long
let the sun shine
on the move
turfurniture
city of dreams installation
tipping
styrofoam AND day-glo