spit shine

my approach to cleaning house has never been thorough. ask Charlie Isenberg. 'you never really wash the dishes.' he would say, pointing out spots on the glasses or a stray shoelace of pasta under a plate which he would then rewash with his nose in air. at the same time i have a snob's abhorrence for slobs, appearance ahead of truth (at least have your fucking house LOOK clean i snarl). for me it has always been about aesthetics. i like the look of a clean, apparently orderly apartment. it pleases me, like table lamps coloring rooms with a gentle, fantasy-world ambience, very Blanche Dubois. as for the dishes, i burn them clean, a lazy, green-less sterilization that leaves the tap on it's hottest dial, the steam blurring the window above the sink, until the dish is cooked. my oddest idiosyncrasy: the spit shot. i lob a gob onto an annoying smudge on the kitchen linoleum and rub the it away with toe of my foot-in-sock while i'm on the phone multitasking with a vengence.