There's this thing called a "Swiffer WetJet," and it's wonderful for doing the floors without really doing the floors. Or so my wife thinks. I like pushing the thing around, pressing the button, watching streams of Swiffer Juice spray in front of the pad. I don't know how well it cleans, but it leaves a wet shiny patch, and that has to count for something.
My wife is more of a get-out-the-bucket-and-knee-pads floor cleaner, which I sometimes find excessive. If you have to get down on your hands and knees to see what needs to be cleaned, perhaps it doesn't need to be cleaned right away? When are we down that close?
I mean, yes, it's possible that a bus full of orphans will break down outside out house, and we'll have to take the kids in and amuse them with horseback rides, and then we'd see the small molecules of Crumbium, but what if we do that type of horseback ride where they're on your shoulders, and you're standing erect? You won't see the crumbs then.
Yes, I know the obvious objection: That's more dangerous. The orphans could fall and injure themselves, and what began as a heartwarming little interlude ends in lawsuits and medical bills. Good point. So hands-and-knees cleaning it is, I guess. For the orphans.
But sometimes I make sure to Swiffer-Jet before my wife gets that look in her eye that says "bucket time." Then I can gloat: "Sorry, hon, already 'did' the floors."
It's a Sunday night thing. I started Swiffering, and did two steps on the stairs before the machine ceased to expectorate. One minute it shot out a shot of swab-sauce, and then it muttered and quit.
This probably meant dead batteries. I got some AAs out of the drawer and replaced the old ones, setting them aside for recycling. Pushed the button. Nothing.
I removed the replacements and tried four more. Pushed the button. Nothing.
A few months ago my wife's computer keyboard had ceased to work, and I'd gone through four sets of batteries trying to bring it back to life. Nothing had worked, so I concluded it was dead and got a new one.
Now I'm thinking the batteries were the problem. They were the brand that says they last just as long as the expensive ones — you know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you? And you never quite believe that, do you? How many times will it take for you to learn? But there you are in the store, and one set is $17.99, and the other is $11.99, and you think, "They say they last longer. But they didn't say that 'lab tests prove it.'"
I looked at the expiration: 10 2031. At this point I'd be happy if I found that on my ankle. You have to admire the precision: On Sept. 31, 2031, they're chock full o' energy, but come the stroke of midnight, all the power drains away.
Anyway, one of two things has happened. Either this entire batch of batteries is bad, or it's actually 2031. I know time accelerates the older you get, but I'd think I would recall the last nine years.
"Hon, do you remember Daughter's college graduation? I mention that because either these batteries are all bad or some mass planetary amnesia happened, and that's what Elon Musk was really up to with that whole Starlink satellite system."
"What are you talking about?"
"The Swiffer! None of the batteries work!"
"The Swiffer uses batteries?"
"Yes? I mean, it makes an obvious noise that clearly indicates a powered mechanism. That's not my point. These batteries are dead, but they all say 2031. October 2031."
No — wait a minute. If Musk's amnesia rays went operational just a few days ago, there has to be evidence of 2031 somewhere. Check the newspapers in the recycling bin.
(I know what you're saying: He thinks there will be newspapers in 2031.)
The bin was empty. All the papers had gone out two days before, and we'd used the Sunday paper for window washing. Well isn't that conveeeenient, no? All the papers that might prove it was actually 2031 were soggy and crumpled and stuffed in a bag in the garbage?
So either I get out the newspapers and check the dates, or I see if I have batteries from another brand. I decided to go with the latter. There were some upstairs in the useful-stuff drawer. Amazon brand, with an expiration of 09 2031.
I put in the batteries and pushed the button. It whirred and spit. Whew. The good news: it wasn't 2031. The bad news: it was still 2022. Even worse: I heard my wife filling up the bucket in the kitchen.
Well, someone has to do the floors. Orphan bus might be by in the morning.
