The Big Clean

Once again I'm amidst a disruptive moving of furniture and hardcore cleaning of apartment whilst the sound of tennis pops from my TV. Spring cleaning, French Open. Traditional moving day, Wimbledon. Fall cleaning, US Open. This is, apparently, the best thing I can do with a 3-day weekend...

Yesterday was my first amateur use of a steam carpet cleaner. Actually, this one didn't involve steam unless I was using it wrong--just hot water, expensive soapy additive, a vibrating bristle brush, and a hell of a lot of patience. I was hoping for magic, I think--drag the Rug Doctor (trademark) across the carpet and all of a sudden... new carpet! Carpet I would want to roll around on nekkid and take a big ole sniff of. But, the reality was less spectacularly pseudo-sexual. What the Rug Doctor was able to do was take out the camoflage-patterned stain-and-Resolve-bleached matrix that was making it difficult to know the true color of the carpet. Or at least subdue it. What the Rug Doctor could not do, though, was make the highly-trafficked portions of the carpets at the doorways look like the rest of the carpet, which was the "magic" goal. So it looks like I'm due to be embarassed by my carpets for as long as they're there. I will say, though, after letting it all dry overnight, there is marked improvement in the look and feel. They are now ready to once again serve as the substrate for huge clumps of hair and cat barf. The stuff that came out of that tank--out of the carpet--was... well, let's just say I can't believe I let my feet touch those carpets before. Eww.

I had the opportunity to talk to a 56-year-old version of myself at the bar last night. Yes, I went to a bar on Big Clean weekend--my fatigue and disappointment with Day 1 required some medication. I brought my flash cards along to study as I imbibed, and the older gentleman sitting on the neighboring bar stool caught sight and decided to start up a comversation loosely founded on architecture. Naturally I looked a little distracted to begin with, but he was already an untold number of drinks towards oblivion, so he continued. Apparently, he's single and renting at 56. Very displeased with the quality of housing in the area. In a job with a potentially limited future and concerned about being laid off. So, I thought, better keep this conversation going and see where I'll be in 25 years. It didn't sound fun. Mostly boring, with a good dose of bitterness and regret. Is there hope for Warren, my 56-year-old self? Let's hope so. The world needs to cure its Warrens.