I had what I thought was a eureka moment the other day…a way of getting at the bits of dirty grout staining the new kitchen floor.
Rather than use an ordinary cloth, pot scrubber or SOS pad (do they even make those anymore?), I decided to use a toothbrush. And rather than just any ordinary toothbrush, I would use the Crest Electric that has been lying fallow in the bathroom cabinet lo these many months (to quote Kevin Kline).
Actually, I’m not sure why I have never used it. I think I was afraid, worrying that I would polish the veneer right off my front tooth, or fracture the bridge, or dislocate my shoulder in a splendour of swirling frenzy.
Anyway, I picked up one of the sweet yellow kitchen chairs, and placed it close to the most offensive blemishes. (I don’t kneel very well. I think it has something to do with a fear of God and the rolls of translucent flesh bulging between my breasts and my thighs.)
Forgetting that I have short arms, I sat down, toothbrush in hand.
I was able, with careful manoeuvring, to angle the brush at 45 degrees -- barely touching the grout, this is true, but convincing myself that this was some sort of a start.
I began my work.
Slowly, I made my way about an eighth or a quarter of an inch, wishing that I had not bitten my nails the day before, because holding down the battery depressor (if that’s what it’s called) was beginning to hurt. Along with my stomach. And my back.
In the meantime, the cats kept lying down and rolling across the cool tile, the dog began barking for her dinner, and the telephone rang about 17 times. (Sixteen telemarketers + my daughter.)
I figured at this point, if I could slide to the edge of the chair I would be more likely to reach a wider area and place greater pressure on the stained spots. I shooed the cats away, yelled at the dog, and wondered what people would say could they see me.
As hard as I pressed myself and the toothbrush forward, I could see, even beneath the overhead light, that I was making no progress. The grout still looked discoloured, and I had no idea what to do.
Rather than read up on stain remover in my new Reader’s Digest book, I stood up, slid the chair over to the table, and tossed the toothbrush into the kitchen sink, figuring that if I at least cleaned it, the brush would be good for the next household task.
No, this isn’t going where you think it is. As much as I wish I had something funny to say or some interesting sidebar, the best I can do is tell you that the next day, when Mary asked me if I realized I had thrown an electric toothbrush into the sink and I replied, “Yes, of course I know that. I wanted to clean it, so I tossed it in with the soaking dishes,” I had no idea, until she spelled it out for me with the word electric, that what I had done was ruin a perfectly good, practically unused, Crest electric toothbrush. And a battery.
Which all reminds me of the time I used the electric mixer to whip up a cake mix and, forgetting to unplug the machinery, put the chocolatey surplus up to my greedy lips, most fortunate, as my friends pointed out later, that I hadn’t electrocuted myself. (Mind you, it might account for that bout of salmonella I had the same month.)
I’m not sure where I’m going with all of this, except to say that the reason they’re called epiphanies is because they don’t come cheaply. In other words, the next time you think you’re having a eureka moment, remember the words “out damned spot!” and hire someone else to do the job.
What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
pow'r to accompt?—Yet who would have thought the old man to
have had so much blood in him?
Macbeth, Act V Scene I
