WIFE

OFF THE FLOOR

          My toilet bowls have transformed into things of genuine beauty. Sometimes, I take the time to appreciate their tenacity, their shine, and their resilience in the face of you-know-what. And just this morning, I was convinced the downstairs toilet bowl winked at me. The toilets are on my side.

          Appliances and fixtures are either for you or against you. It is all personal with them. I know the toilets, the washing machine, and the dryer are 100% on my side. If I am having a tough day, or a hard time facing something, I drop in a load of laundry and in no time, the whole kitchen is singing my song. They do what I say.

          I often return to my personal ground zero, the kitchen sink: It’s a kindred spirit. It endures, much like me. It will not fight for anything. However, I have decided the stove is against me, and I don’t know why. Why is it always scowling at me? Its jaw is so squarely set against me. It sends me the merciless message of “Hi, Lo, On, Off. Oven Heating, Surface Heating. Auto Self-Clean.” It mocks me with its contemptuous, “Hi there! Low today? On or off today? Something big burning you deep down in your oven, or you got something superficial simmering? You clean up your own act!” A relentless refrain of put-downs from the stove. Zero sympathy. No appreciation. It is so damn hard to work against that total lack of support every day. So, most days I turn to the refrigerator and eat the uncooked: salad and yogurt.

          Of all the household work, the kitchen floor has become my centerpiece. I want to get the floor right, even though I will probably move in a few months. I know perfectly well that this is a rented floor that comes with the rented condo, but I am not renting my life, I tell myself. There are precious few places where I can make a difference right now, but the floor is certainly one of them. It feels good to make a difference. My kitchen floor is a showcase for my talent. The linoleum isn’t that old: it just that it hasn’t been cared for and feels grimy to the touch. No one has nurtured it, spent time looking at it, or assessed its needs: I will. I am on a quest to find a dynamite combination of cleansers.

          My new quest has charged up conversations with neighbors. Tammy, from next door, knows every brand of household cleanser in North America. Once, I witnessed Tammy vacuuming the path to her front door. Here is a woman unafraid of pushing domestic issues to their limit. I did not grow up accumulating information about American household cleaning agents and I have many questions. Tammy blossomed as she told me what to do first, what next, how often, with what type of sponge, everything. Tammy has become a friend. She invited me into her house to see soap scum in her shower stall.

          I have invested. I got abrasives, non-abrasives, cloths, sprays, and paper towels in enormous bundles from a warehouse. After a few weeks and a few false starts, I had success. It now looks new. It was an excellent day when Tammy praised my floor. I hurt with pride when Tammy said, “Your floor is so clean you could eat off it.”

          The last three words stayed with me: “Eat off it.” After Tammy left, I thought I should eat off it. Instead of hanging my face over the kitchen sink, I decided to go the extra mile and eat off the floor. It felt like a party. At first, I wondered what to eat. The floor is eggshell white, with black lines about a half-inch wide forming a grid. Where the lines intersect there is a black diamond. It is elegant. While looking hard at the eggshell color, I decided on scrambled eggs. That would be a true test of whether or not the floor is clean, I thought. Eating a sandwich off the floor would be a cop out. Everybody’s floor can handle that. No. I wanted a real dining experience.

          I made it a brunchy thing. Around 11 am. I poured orange juice into a crystal sherry glass and then agonized over exactly where on the floor to place it. I finally went with the fifth black diamond over from the hinged side of the fridge. It looked classy. As soon as the eggs coagulated, I stirred and seasoned and scooped them into my big, black serving spoon and gently nestled them inside the black lines of a white square close to the sherry glass. Perfection! Clean canary-colored eggs on the black-and-white floor, and a pristine glass of orange juice spreading a warm glow inviting me to lunch. I wondered how to arrange myself.

          I settled on Roman style. I lay down on my left side, as if I were attending a Roman banquet. I propped up my head with my left arm and began to scoop the eggs into my mouth delicately with a small fork held aloft in my right hand. Now, this is living, I thought. I don’t usually go to this much trouble just for myself.

copyright 2016, by author, Annabelle Howard