Just a Little Bird Floating on a Hurricane

This is a little strange, but lately I've been slightly jealous of my foremothers' lifetime of homemaking training.  Not that I think it's healthy that for many generations, society pushed a whole category of people out of the workforce and into the kitchen just because of their chromosomal make up, but sometimes when I look at a stain or mess I wish I instantly knew the most effective way to remedy it with some sort of Maguiver-like use of vinegar or club soda or lemon juice or whatever.  Last year was my first time ever not living in campus housing or my parents' house, but Sr Susanne had a maid come every other Friday so we just had to keep things pretty tidy.  She taught us a trick with vinegar and baking soda to keep drains clean, and I sometimes wonder how many tricks like that June Cleaver had up her sleeve.  Every time I fight a seemingly hopeless battle to clean the stove top (so many grooves!  The dirty water just pools in the corners of the burners) or the kitchen floor (it seriously was many shades darker from all the dirt when we first moved in but I don't think I'll ever get it totally dirt-free) or the white walls (I don't understand why the landlord insists that all the walls have to be perfectly white, as if all the grease spots from the people's fingers on the walls needed highlighting), I wonder what trick Sr Susanne would have to really get that stuff clean without the sticky residue or counterproductive puddles of dirty water my efforts always seem to leave.  I'm surely romanticizing the old tradition of raising little girls to take their mothers' place and little boys to do the work of their fathers, and I'm very grateful for the opportunities I've had to explore all my opportunities for myself, to decide what path I want to take and what skills I want to learn instead of having it decided for my, but sometimes I think I might trade in having taken lyrical dance or advanced math to have developed an instinct of what to do with a particular kind of stain or mess I face.  Google is helpful (one time I overcooked something in the microwave and found out I could get rid of the burnt smell in the microwave's fans by putting cut lemons in a bowl of water with some cinnamon and vanilla and microwaving for 5-10 minutes.  Very effective.)   Calling home works pretty well, too, depending on the day/time.  But sometimes when I'm trying to get the kitchen floor clean, I can't help but wonder what June Cleaver or Ma Ingalls would do to get my house looking a bit less grimy and student apartment-like.  Not something I would trade general society's progress toward gender equality for, however.

listening to To the Dogs or Whoever by Josh Ritter