A week long disaster of frozen pipes has caused chaos in the house. Dirka-Dirka, our ungodly landlord, was unable to accommodate the lingering tragedy. Our sinks and dishwasher have been completely out of commission; no thanks to Ed, the stereotypical butt-crack-exposed handyman. We were forced to return to pioneer-times, cleaning all dishes BY HAND, all we were missing was a washboard and a jar of moonshine. On hands and knees for nearly 6 hours we fiercely scrubbed, brushed and wiped the filthy mess we like to call our kitchen. Three bins of brown scummy water sit staring me square in the eyes. The charming background tunes of Laddy Gaga, and other horribly good pop music sustained all motivation. I felt my body cringe when I discovered that a dozen week-old eggs had nestled their way into a new home at the base of our cast iron skillet. Several dashes to the nipple-biting cold of the backyard to slosh the left-over floaties into the mud combined with countless trips to the bath tub to re-fill the buckets dragged on for what seemed a coon's age. Gross.
Today, I proved that you can do anything with rubber gloves. 5 germ-destroyed sponges, 2,300 pounds of mucky water and 6 pruned hands later, the kitchen was screaming so fresh and so clean; clean.
Marisa and I wrapped up the cleaning rampage with a key lime pie, purchased with bottle deposit money collected from after-party festivities of the past week.
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