Back in Victorian ages, parents wanted their daughters to play with dolls and doll houses to learn house pride. I had Barbies and a Barbie Townhouse with an elevator equipped with a pulley (the coolest invention ever). Instead of house pride, I imagined Ken as Shaun Cassidy and me as Barbie. We drove around in our plastic convertible listening to Larry Lujack on WLS AM Radio play “Da Doo Ron Ron.”
Mopping the floors and dusting furniture were not in my daily schedule at the Barbie Townhouse. Surfing by day and disco by night with our matching JCPenney catalog polyester pant suits were the only tasks on my to-do list.
Later in life I learned house pride. Today, for instance, I scrubbed the kitchen floor. It felt like 100 push ups. That inspired me. Housecleaning is a workout! Last week I dusted furniture reveling in the orange oil smell. As I climbed the stairs I noticed dust on our ceiling fan.
Entranced by the dust layer’s thickness, I recalled one of my mom’s questions from yore. She cleaned the house when I was a budding pre-teen planning my pool party with Ken/Shaun Cassidy.
“Did someone die under your bed?” she asked.
Looking up from my Tiger Beat magazine with an open-shirted and floppy-haired Shaun, I said, “No, why?”
“When you die, don’t you turn to dust?”
Under my bed, dust bunnies multiplied faster than the future Octomom’s spawn. Most of the time, if I don’t see dust it does not exist. It’s like if a tree makes a sound if nobody hears it fall. It probably does but if the tree doesn’t kill anything, what’s the problem?
So dust will stay right where it is. Until Mom visits and asks if someone died on my ceiling fan.