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- Laura on Life -

Gypsy Cleaning Fairies

July 1, 2009
Traer Star-Clipper

By Laura Snyder

You know what my house needs? It needs a team of gypsy cleaning fairies. Not just your ordinary run-of-the-mill gypsy cleaning fairies, but the sort that can see invisible stuff. Things like a smear of pancake syrup on the edge of a kitchen chair. You don't even know it's there until you squat to tie a child's shoe or bring the dust pan closer to the broom. Then you find that you can't stand up again because the back of your thighs and calves have been fused together by pancake syrup that has dried to super-glue consistency. If you don't have those search and destroy cleaning fairies around, you could find yourself waddling around like a duck all day. Dinner would be based on the things in the refrigerator which were within reach. That would be mostly the items in the vegetable crisper. "What's for dinner today, honey?" Eggplant, carrot, & celery casserole with a glass of pickle juice and a side of the apricot preserves your aunt made for us at Christmas two years ago. The casserole will be cold though, because I couldn't reach the oven knobs. I sat in invisible syrup today, you see, and there was nobody here to help me pry my legs apart. I asked the mailman, but he took one look at me and ran. Can you imagine? It's as if I had a pit bull standing behind me or something. Those specialized gypsy cleaning fairies would see a disaster waiting to happen and make it disappear with a wave of their magic wand or fairy duster, ruby slippers, or whatever fairies use for such things. They would see that somebody had peed on the toilet seat and they would be right there between the seat and my rear end trying to neutralize (or sanitize) the situation. I bet they get paid well for that. They probably have a union to take care of their interests, especially when they happen to be between a rock and a hard place. Neither of which would apply to my behind, of course. The gypsy cleaning fairies would be there when somebody put a hole in the middle of a full tube of toothpaste. Why would my demented children find it necessary to put a hole in my toothpaste? Why do they find it necessary to sit in my chair at my spot at the kitchen table while eating watermelon? They must know it is not possible to eat watermelon without getting juice on the table. They must know that if you leave it there overnight, the juice will bond with the breakfast cereal box and rip the bottom off of it if you are unwise enough to remove it from the table by force. Why, when I stick my hand under the sofa to remove the half-dozen assorted unmatched socks under there, does my hand always come out with something gooey attached to it? A squished raisin, a nectarine pit, Nickolodeon Slime, or other better-left-unidentified matter. Why am I always the person to discover a juice spill that had been wiped over once with a dry paper towel? To be more specific, it is usually my bare feet that do the discovering. I do not have a dog, but just leaving my bedroom in the morning is like stepping in dog doo-doo every time you set foot in the yard. If those gypsy cleaning fairies ever show up at my door, union or no union, they will be working for every penny they earn.



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