I appreciate a freshly vacuumed floor and a mildew free shower more than the next girl. Out of the 15+ roommates that I’ve had so far in my life, I have been the cleanest. I guess that’s not such an accomplishment considering I’m comparing myself to the college roommate that used her desk as a kitchen sink and couldn’t use the blender without getting food slush on the ceiling. Another chick that left her dirty underwear on the bathroom floor every morning; and the dude that left his half snorted cocaine lines on the coffee table… but I guess that had more to do with compromised brain function then cleanliness. I don’t think of myself as a freakozoid about cleaning, but it has always been the one thing that I wished my plethora of roommates did more of.

A dirty bachelor pad has had the power to make me write off weeks of good dates, never did I think that my own apartment would have the same power. 

Mr. Clean lived in an Ikea catalog. His dinning room table was always set like he was running Buddakan out of his house. He swept his shiny hard wood floor every.single.day and waxed it every Sunday, at 9am exactly. He had coasters and an uncomfortable leather couch that he never sat on. His house made me self-conscious about my own place and I didn’t let him come over until I cleaned the shit out of it.

 I scrubbed the shower and soaked the stove burners, vacuumed the couch and Febrezed all things Febreze-able. Finally, I felt like it was up to his standards.

We are sitting on my couch and out of the corner of my eye I see something crawling across the floor. At first I think it’s a centipede, but no… it was a ginormous roach and it crawled directly onto his foot. This thing had a purpose and it was to make sure I never saw this dude again.

All of a sudden things started going in slow motion like I was watching a movie. Mr. Clean looks down, his eyes get huge and a look of disgust hijacks his face. He kicks Mr. Roach off of his foot, runs into my kitchen, grabs a wooden spoon, runs back and beats the roach to death.

Legs and guts are flying everywhere and I’m just standing there, watching.

After there was no more roach left to attack, Mr. Clean composes himself, puts on his shoes and tells me that, “We’re just too different.” I never heard from him again.

 Mr. Roach was obviously on a serious mission and I like to think he was trying to tell me that Sunday mornings are meant for spooning, not for waxing floors. Mission accomplished Mr. Roach.