Damien Galeone

Today I am scrubbing the floor with lemon peels. I am doing this because the internet told me to, and we all listen to the internet.

For the same reason, my bathtub is filled with dirty water and a dryer sheet is sitting in a pot filled with water and the crusted remains of last night’s dinner.

I am now a domestic MoFo.

Why?

Because I don’t live with my mommy anymore.

For I, at one time, was a momma’s boy. Growing up in my house meant that Mom did everything for you. Everything. If we threw socks on the ground – and during a good battle of sock rockets you had to – my mom was there to pick them up and wash them. My dad being a long-term momma’s dentist didn’t involve himself in domestic affairs unless someone lost a molar or the house was attacked by a giant cavity monster, an occurrence which took place twice during my collegiate, um, Pink Floyd phase. My mom cooked every meal, cleaned every inch of the house, washed every stitch of clothing, patched wounds like a trench medic, and mediated every battle in the war of sibling rivalry (August 1976 – July 1997).

It was great.

But at seventeen I moved out and it was not great. For anyone. It wasn’t great for me and it especially wasn’t great for the dozens of poor unfortunates I lived with over the years. We all endured the fallout from not having my mom around to take care of every domestic need.

For years (and years and years) I dropped dirty dishes into the sink and would later become astonished when they hadn’t been cleaned by the kitchen elves. I did the same with the toilet – the astonishment, not the dishes – and the laundry, and the floor, and the oven. I was one unpopular, unsanitary son of a bitch.

But then, I moved to a place by myself.

Living alone means a couple of things. First of all, it means doing everything by yourself. It’s not possible to share domestic duties with a roommate or a significant other. And since my cat has rejected my suggestions about cleaning her own litter box, I just as soon say that I live alone.

Second, it means choosing between life as a troll and life as a human being. I lived the troll life for a long while and tired of lying in piles of my own filth and dirty clothing in my hovel. OK, I didn’t tire of it, but the women who visited my hovel did.

I won’t pretend that I had an epiphany one morning and immediately donned a sarong and grabbed a mop. But as they say, necessity is the momma of domestication. So where are you going to look when you need to know how to get cat urine out of a sweater? Who do you call when you need to wash cat vomit off a shower curtain, get gum out of your beard or know how to best cook pork? When you need to know how to strangle your submissive without accidentally killing her, where do you go?

The Internet.

So I have become a connoisseur of household tricks. I use a straightening iron for shirt collars and ironing between buttons. I carry emergency antacids and aspirin in a contact lens case and save old jars for easy egg whipping.

Still, when there’s a big issue – punctured Freon line in freezer, July, 2013, comes to mind – you’ve got to pick up the phone and call in the big guns.

“Mom! Help!”

Do you have any domestic tidbits of knowledge? Please share, so that I can avoid my computer for a while!

Here are two recourses for creative uses for everyday household items. Enjoy!

Simplify your world

http://twistedsifter.com/2013/01/50-life-hacks-to-simplify-your-world/

28 uses for everyday things

http://www.realsimple.com/home-organizing/new-uses-for-old-things/28-uses-for-every-day-items-00000000007991/index.html