Thanks, Mr. Clean

I used to reign supreme over my kitchen counters. It was all I had. The “cleaning consultant” took that away.

I hate Cinderella. I have a 5-year-old foster daughter who has forced me to read the Cinderella book a thousand times, see the Cinderella movie two thousand times, buy the Cinderella dress, the Cinderella watch, the Cinderella sheets, the Cinderella sticker book, the Cinderella coloring book, the Cinderella mud flaps, and the Cinderella blood pressure cuff. Legally, there is nothing I can do about it.

Cinderella is a terrible role model for kids. She has no virtues at all. The only reason she ever got anything is because she cried and her fairy godmother showed up and dressed her. Then she danced with the prince once and married him. Oh, very smart, Cin. I always tell my foster kid, “You know, they don’t tell you what happens after she marries the prince. It gets worse.”

Cinderella should have gotten out of the house. She should have been a labor organizer. She should have overthrown the monarchy instead of marrying into it. She cleans just to avoid real life. Her mop is a crutch.

I know, because I do the exact same thing. I love to clean. Perhaps more accurately, I must clean. The more difficult life becomes, the more detailed my cleaning. After watching the Republican candidates debate in Iowa, I was driven to crevice-tool the inside edge of my entire house. I can hear a speech on C-Span threatening Medicare benefits and think, “I have got to dust and alphabetize my videotapes.” I don’t have to be Freud to know this is a sickness.