Rub-A-Dub Dub

There are five humans living in our apartment. We have a rotating cleaning schedule, where we each take a week to do ALL the cleaning there is to be done -- scrub the toilets, take out the garbage, dust the ceiling fans (I forgot that one when it was my turn). The three animals, who contribute much, much more than anyone else to the fur that collects on every surface, don't take part in this rota. Hardly seems fair, does it? But they're so darn cute.

Your week to clean is your Hell Week. Or, if you're a romantic (and don't mind wearing dresses), Cinderella Week, and you can wear your hair in a scarf and sing while scrubbing on your hands and knees. Every girl dreams of that, right?

I'm not a big cleaner. I can do it, like I can do a lot of things, but I don't get into it like some people do. Some people, like my roommate Helen. She has diagnosed Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, which is awesome. She loves to clean, and happily makes deals with the rest of us. I think she cleans every week now, with the rest of us trading favors. Not the sexual kind.

Not that it doesn't comes close. Helen has foot problems, so what she wants most in exchange for all her hard work are foot rubs. I gave her one this week. Is it weird that it wasn't weird? It helps that she has nice feet -- no cheese, warts, or flaky skin. You know how you can go to the doctor's office and not be embarrassed by things that would normally embarrass you in public? I think it's like that. You just turn off this switch in your head and it's OK. And it's not like there was toe-sucking involved or anything.

Wonder what chore I'd have to get out of to be willing to do that.