sponges really do suck

My response to my mother’s affliction has changed over years: denial, bargaining, anger, depression, and finally acceptance. Sound familiar? Comparing my view of my mother’s perfectionism to the stages of mourning may take it a little too far, but I must admit that the journey has not been without its ups and downs. Resistance if not down-right rebellion against some of her ways has led to conflict. I am not a perfectionist. I took a test. Apparently I simply “strive for excellence.” That being said, it does not mean that I may one day become one, or even become more like my mother. My purpose in this blog is to respond to my mother’s perfection hoping not only to enrich her suggestions but also that some of her ingenuity might rub off on me as well.

Although my posts are in response to hers, mine will be published slightly before, that way they fall below hers on this blog (a perfectionist wouldn’t have it any other way!). If in the event that this does not occur, please scroll down and read her post first. Please expect new topics before or on every Sunday, but we will continue to comment throughout the week.

Best,

Lindsay (a.k.a. Perri’s Daughter)

response number one: sponges really do SUCK

Now that I am away at school for most of the year, I find myself missing my mother’s ingenious peculiarities as well as the week or even month long quests to find the perfect product to fit a need. Of all such quests, the “search for the stylish sponge” is the one I miss the least. I detest sponges. Not only do I detest sponges, but on many occasions I refuse to use them.

Sponges and I have a long and sordid history. Up until the last couple years, I would rinse dishes without the use of a sponge before putting them in the dishwasher, choosing to touch the food on the plate rather than handle the slimy, smelly sponge. Once my mother discovered the white sponges, my disgust continued, the peaceful aesthetic of the sponge is temporarily compromised by that night’s chicken grease and red stains from my mother’s homemade pasta sauce. My war against sponges extended outside the kitchen last summer when an act of good will turned sour after I accidentally used the scouring side of a rogue brillo sponge on my mother’s black BMW. Thankfully, the car didn’t have to be repainted . . . entirely.

More than that, I hold a firm belief that sponges potentially pose a serious health hazard. If not disinfected correctly, sponges contain bad-news germs. Sponges are used on kitchen surfaces, sinks, and dirty cutting boards (my father’s pet-peeve) which have more germs than a household bathroom. Not only can sponges carry cold and flu viruses, they can spread more serious threats like salmonella. Food borne illnesses are the bane of my existence; my mission is their defeat.  This proved to be rather difficult in my dorm where the kitchen would frighten even the worst hygiene offender. Cleanliness in college can be challenging, and my health suffered. Without a dishwasher to put the sponges in, I resorted to zapping them in the microwave. I don’t know how effective this is as a disinfectant; maybe this was just my personal revenge on the little suckers. Regardless, that sponge was cooked.