Chapter Two
Dust Bunnies
When I was seven years old, I found my passion. I liked to clean. I liked it a lot. I would spend hours on the weekend organizing my half of the bedroom I shared with my older sister, Tully, wiping down surfaces with baby wipes that I would steal from Bell’s nursery. My parents, Jeff and Susan Kramer, did not like to clean. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we lived in a dump with black dirt and mold everywhere. More like a three bedroom split-level in the suburbs that looked like a tornado had swept through the interior.
At the tender age of seven I knew enough to know that I didn’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings. I knew that if I asked her for a bottle of Lysol and a collection of various plastic bins in different sizes, she would feel inadequate in some way. So I stole baby wipes and hoarded them in a Ziploc bag that I had wedged between my mattress and box spring.
Gradually my obsession grew and when I graduated high school, I went straight to college to obtain my degree in business management. Six years ago, at the age of twenty-five, I started my own housekeeping business, Dust Bunnies. I started small, with just myself and a small list of monthly clients and I still had to work part time to pay my bills. But gradually word spread when one of my earliest clients, a successful prosecutor and married mother of three, began to give my name out to colleagues and other rich people. Dust Bunnies now employs six professional house cleaners, including me, and we have nearly a full monthly schedule of clients.
Tully likes to refer to my penchant for cleaning and organizing as middle child over compensating for a weird and chaotic childhood syndrome. But I just really like to clean. The act itself relaxes me. It brings me joy. I love seeing a crusty puddle of neglected milk knowing that I’m going to scrub it clean and make that particular shelf in the fridge shine like new. I love that feeling of accomplishment.
Today is Friday, which means I only have one house to clean. Mr. and Mrs. Carrington live in a three level monstrosity of a home on the west side of Chicago with their two teenage children. I pull up to the large home with its professionally groomed front yard and gather my large pink plastic caddy from the backseat, which holds all of my favourite cleaning products along with my sponges and brushes. I smooth down my black scrubs and straighten my name tag. No one will be home right now but I like to make sure I always look professional when I’m coming and going just in case a neighbour spots me. You never know when someone will decide they are too lazy to clean their own windows or scrub their own toilets. And personal appearance is a great advertiser.
I punch in the security code on the front door and enter the large foyer. I like to clean top to bottom so I head up the large staircase and begin by attacking the kids’ bathroom first. I drop a homemade deodorizing toilet bomb into the porcelain bowl and pop in my earbuds, the faint scent of lavender fills the air as Elle King begins to play.
My happy place.
*
Hours later, I’m standing in front of my closet, scanning the contents. I’m willing something to spontaneously jump out at me and miraculously fit my now ten pound heavier frame. Ten pounds doesn’t stand out much to the untrained eye, but it’s obvious to me when I’m trying to stuff my ass into a pair of skinny jeans that were just right a few months ago. I mentally kick myself for scoffing at all those women’s magazine articles I’ve read over the years that told me my metabolism would slow once I hit thirty. I snag a boldly printed tunic style top that my mother bought me and throw it on over a pair of black leggings. I pull my hair from the knot on top of my head and run my fingers through the natural looking waves and give it a quick spray. I take the time to apply some makeup and slip my feet into my favourite flats before I flip off the lights and head down the three flights of stairs to catch a cab.
Every Friday night my family meets at Tully’s house for supper. Once my parents leave and the kids are tucked into bed, my sisters and I lounge on the back deck and split a couple bottles of wine. Sometimes Tully’s boyfriend, Dan, joins us, but usually he just hides in the house and watches Supernatural. I can’t say I blame him; we are complete assholes when we drink together.
Less than twenty minutes later we pull up to Tully and Dan’s townhouse in Lincoln Park. I pay the driver and walk up the short concrete steps that lead up to the front door. My nephew, Bobby, opens the door just as I’m about to knock and shoots me in the tit with a Nerf bullet.
“Bobby! I told you not to shoot people,” my sister scolds as she wipes her hands on a tea towel and snatches the plastic gun from his hands. “This in mine until next weekend.”
“Aw, that’s not fair! How am I supposed to defend myself?” he whines.
“You’re seven, use your brain,” she says, waving me inside.
“I don’t like this, Tulip Wednesday Kramer, age thirty-six, weight one hun-,”
“Bobby! Go bug your father,” she commands.
“Why is your son calling you by your full name? And also reciting your age and weight?” I ask, hanging my purse up.
“He found my driver’s license the other day. God, he’s such a bastard sometimes,” she sighs. “Come keep me company in the kitchen. Dan’s hiding in the basement and Mom and Dad have the other kids out back with the telescope.”
I trail behind Tully as she walks down the hall, back to the kitchen. She’s wearing her favourite pair of boyfriend jeans which she insists is the greatest fit ever invented for women. Her long chocolate brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she’s wearing a David Bowie T-shirt that she’s had since college beneath a red and black plaid printed shirt. Her thick black rimmed glasses combined with her casual clothes make her look far younger than thirty-six.
“Where’s Bell?”
“She texted earlier, she ended up getting a gig tonight so she’s bailing,” she says.
“Hm, well I suppose that’s good ne-JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!! What the hell is that?!”
We round the corner into the kitchen and sitting in the corner of the room is a massive taxidermied cheetah sitting on a bar stool.
“Oh, you mean that amazing piece of African themed art in the corner over there?”
“Umm, sure, yeah. We can call it that if you want to,” I say, as she rolls her eyes and begins pulling vegetables for a salad from the fridge.
“That creepy shit usually stays hidden under the stairs but Dan’s parents are coming up for the weekend so he drug it up this morning.”
“Why?”
“Because, Poppy, when you accept an insanely expensive townhouse in Lincoln Park from your in-laws at a ridiculously below market value price, you have to display their terrible fucking housewarming gifts every Goddamn time they come to visit. That’s why,” she says, slashing a chef’s knife through a head of lettuce.
“Noted.”
“Aw, you’re being too hard on Glen,” Dan says as he walks into the room and plucks a baby tomato from the bowl on the counter. Nearing forty, he too shows little sign of aging. His brown hair is still thick and unruly in a boyish kind of way and he’s just as lean as he was ten years ago.
“You named the cheetah?” I ask.
“Of course I named the cheetah,” he says, grinning. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” Tully says. “No professional chefs allowed. Your mediocre, number crunching girlfriend is handling supper tonight.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you two actually got married? You’ve been together for what, like twenty years?”
“Twenty- one,” says Dan.
“Three kids, twenty-one years and you’re still boyfriend and girlfriend. I don’t get it.”
“Ugh, I’m too lazy to get married,” Tully says.
“I kind of like that you’re my girlfriend,” Dan says, nuzzling her neck and grabbing her ass. “It makes me feel like a teenager.”
“Out! Go find Bobby. He’s sulking over his Nerf gun,” she says.
“Anything for you m’lady,” he bows.
She snorts a laugh and chucks a tomato at him as he leaves the kitchen. I remember being in junior high when Tully first brought Dan home and thinking he was the coolest guy on the planet. He’s still pretty cool I guess. He’s the executive chef at one of Chicago’s most popular restaurants downtown while my sister works from home as an accountant. They are probably the most laid back couple I know; I don’t think they ever fight. They had my nephews, Bobby and Henry, and my niece, Pearl, back to back with only just over a year between each. I don’t know how they do it, and as much as I love them I often find myself envious that I haven’t built that part of my life yet. It was a life I had hoped to build with Todd the fucker, but alas, that was apparently not meant to be.
I’m pulled from my thoughts as the patio door bursts open and Henry and Pearl come barrelling through.
“Auntie Poppy, Grandpa showed us your anus!” Pearl squeals.
“Did he? Wow, that’s fantastic,” I say, pulling her onto my lap.
“Henry, go wash your hands for supper and tell Bobby to do the same,” Tully shouts as he runs past her.
“Poppy, darling, when did you get here?”
“Hey, Mom, I haven’t been here long,” I say, pressing my cheek against her hand as she cradles my face.
Pearl struggles to break free from my arms and scampers off after her brother just as my dad walks in and shuts the door.
“Hey Dad, I hear you’re showing the kids my anus,” I say smiling.
“URANUS, Pearl, one word!” he calls out after her with a chuckle. “Hello honey! Look at you; you look beautiful tonight,” he says, pulling me to stand and spinning me in a circle.
“Tulip, doesn’t your sister look ravishing this evening?”
“Yes Dad, your middle child looks wonderful tonight,” she says.
When I was twelve and Tully was seventeen, I ratted on her for breaking curfew and, in turn, she convinced my dad that I have Middle Child Syndrome. He compliments me excessively every time he sees me to correct my self-image he says. My parents are the best. I know lots of people say that, but in my case it really is true. My mother is a bestselling author and my dad used to be an English professor until he retired last year.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say pecking a kiss to his cheek.
You’d never guess by looking at my parents that they’re close to sixty. My mom still wears her golden blonde, grey streaked hair cut short and trendy and often dresses in bright, loose-fitting clothes, making her look more like a yoga instructor than a senior citizen. She also has fantastic genes. My dad has been full-on grey for the last ten years or so, but he still has all his hair and he too dresses younger than his years in old band T-shirts from the sixties and seventies and his blue Levi’s. When he officially retired from teaching, he donated all of his suits and what he referred to as his fancy shit. He proclaimed that under no circumstances would he ever in his life wear anything but jeans from that point on.
“Supper time!” Tully shouts.
We fill our plates and take our usual seats around the big dining room table. It’s loud and crazy. I love it.
My parents head home shortly after dessert, which Dan insisted on making himself earlier this morning. Probably because he knew my sister would max out her kitchen skills with the pasta and salad she always makes, not to mention that her idea of dessert is chucking mints at everyone. I’m sitting on the back deck, waiting while she gets the kids tucked in. The air is still mildly warm as the sun begins to set. I fill two cheap plastic wine glasses with Pinot Grigio and lean back against the cushioned wicker chaise I’m laid out on.
“Ugh, sorry, Pearl was being crazy,” Tully says, sliding the patio door shut behind her. She plops down in the matching chair beside me and sighs before taking a generous sip from the glass I poured for her. “Man, that’s good.”
“Mmmhm.”
“So what’s up with you? Bell said you told her that you think you’re gross.”
“Big mouth,” I mutter.
“Would you expect anything less?”
“No. I don’t know, Tul, I just feel stuck. I finally took down that stupid dress the other day and it felt good. But I don’t know; it’s more than Todd. I feel old and worn. I’m restless and annoyed all the time. And I can’t seem to climb out of it. It’s like it started with that fucker and then everything snow-balled afterwards.”
“I think you need to find some things that are just for you. New things. Try Jazzercise,” she says. “Try anything. Try everything. You’re a smokin’ hot babe with a successful business in a city full of men. Get your freak on.”
“I don’t know if being a slut is going to help me. But, God, I could use an orgasm. Or five.”
“Cheers to that,” she says, clinking her glass to mine.
“Did you like him? Todd, I mean.”
She pauses before taking another sip.
“He seemed ni- “
“Oh no, don’t give me that shit. That’s your answer for everything. He seems nice, she seems nice….no way, Tully. Tell me the truth. Bell says you hated him.”
“Big mouth,” she mutters. “Okay. Fine. He was a goblin. Is that what you want me to say? He was a slimy, condescending, pampered goblin. With woman hands. He treated you like a child, spoke to you as if you didn’t have a single brain cell and he wore so much Axe body spray that my labia inverted themselves out of revulsion every time he was in the vicinity of my vagina.”
“He did?”
“Yes, Poppy, he did.”
“Why didn’t I notice these things?”
“Because you loved him. For reasons that no sane person will ever understand, you loved that little goblin,” she says.
We finish two bottles between us and rather than catch a cab home, Tully makes up the sofa in the den. I lay there, staring at the ceiling. I pick up my phone and swipe at the screen until I get to the Facebook app. I hesitate for at least a minute before I hit delete.
That’s a start, right?