They Sure Don't Make Pigskin Like They Used To

As a part of the preparations for the impending overnight visit of Genius's friend, all hands were on deck this morning for last-minute spiffing.

The organized chaos of the spic-and-spanning was a bit like giving a mouse a cookie. An ADD mouse. I moved items on the counter, then I had to wipe the counter, then the stove looked grimy in comparison, but a shiny stove is no good if that back thing with the controls is spotted, and the knick-knacks lodged atop the stove-back needed a good scrubbing so they didn't stick out like greasy thumbs.

One such item was a stand-up, three-inch-tall, Pepto-Bismol-colored ceramic pig, with a hole in his head to shove three bright pink measuring spoons. A long-ago student gifted me with that cute little pig, so precious with his painted-on chef's apron and cheerful snout. If there's one thing the world does not need, it's a pig with greasy skin. I chucked Piggy into the leftover dishwater which I was using for wiping down the countertops. Between swipes at my burgundy-speckled counter, I turned to wipe off Piggy. Not with the dishwashing sponge. That would just be wrong. I grabbed a soft- and rough-sided sponge that Genius had previously used for the shower door. I used the soft side, of course. To no avail.

Swatches of Piggy's pink skin flaked off upon contact. Not his entire epidermis. Just spots here and there. Pink gone. White underneath. Like a case of vitiligo. "Oops!" I said. "Piggy is peeling like he has a bad sunburn."

Genius screamed at me. "Stop scrubbing him with the rough side! No wonder. You're scraping off his skin!"

"I am not. I used the soft side. I don't want to throw him away. He holds measuring spoons!" Because, you see, as a new gourmet cook, I never know when I might need an eighth-, fourth-, or third-teaspoon of rosemary for some exotic, five-ingredient, crockpot creation. I stood Piggy on his head in the dish drainer.

Genius puttered around, sweeping the kitchen floor in a manner acceptable only to seventeen-year-old guest-hosters. He had grabbed the broken-down, angled broom from the laundry room, after first announcing that he really didn't care if the floor was swept or not. Because, of course, our kitchen floor could be piled ankle deep with peanut shells like a dining room at Texas Roadhouse, but that darn three-inch pig should be spotless. He swept up a pile of departed dust bunnies large enough to make a toupee for Hick. Not over by the wastebasket, but out in the middle of the kitchen. "There's no dustpan. Can I just leave this here?"

After "discovering" two dustpans between the washer and the wall, Genius snatched the kitchen floor bald. He had a glass of water he wanted to pour out. "Hey! The sink is full of water! What am I supposed to do with this?"

"I'm done. Pull the plug and let it out."

"Noooo! I might get Piggy's flesh on my fingers!"

Piggy is back in his old kingdom-surveying spot now. A little worse for wear. I can't see throwing away a perfectly cute pig just because he lost some color. Did I mention that we might be hoarders?