So a few weeks ago, a very nice man, Jon, came and cleaned my apartment. All of us living here — and believe me, there are a lot of us — are pretty good about cleaning up after ourselves. We do the dishes, wipe down the counter tops, take out the garbage, clean up spills, wash the tub. But none of us do the serious cleaning, like cleaning behind the toilet (or, in my case, anywhere near the toilet), the insides of garbage cans, the tops of shelves that have accumulated layers of dust which eventually becomes sticky and is really alarming when you touch it in an effort to get something perched up high. I was anticipating his visit for weeks. The morning of his arrival I said to my mom on the phone,
“Mom, I want it to be 4 o’clock already so he can be done and I can see how clean the apartment is.”
I was giddy. When he first got to the house, he wanted to assess what sorts of cleaning supplies we had so I could run out and get whatever was missing. He went into my most anxiety-causing area of the house – the Cabinet Under the Sink. I have always thought to myself that if I was a roach or something else equally as disgusting (does such a thing even exist??) I would for sure hide in the Cabinet Under the Sink. It is dark, there are pipes in there which means moisture, there are little nooks and crannies in which to hide. Roach heaven. Anyway, as my heart pounded he pulled out the big blue plastic bin of bleach, drain-o, roach killer (ugh), latex gloves and dish soap. Lots and lots of dish soap. By the time he was done going through the dreaded Cabinet Under the Sink I had broken into a slight sweat, due to roach-fear, and a slight red glow, due to embarrassment. Sitting on the counter in front of me was not one, not two, but 5 containers of dish soap with varying degrees of content remaining. And that is not counting the full one I had just purchased the day before that was sitting unopened on the kitchen table. I flashed forward to my life, 20 years down the line. Me, sitting in an easy chair, my 50 cats wandering around the piles, and piles of Seventh Generation lemongrass scented dish washing fluid, the 1-800-GotJunk trucks parked outside with the camera crew and the mental health professional: The Dish Soap Hoarder! I shook the horrific image out of my head to respond to Jon’s repeated question:
“Do you want me to marry these?”
“I don’t think that’s legal in New York. Oh. You mean as in combining them? Oh, yea, I guess you’d better…”
Jon went along his merry way, the plethora of dish soap no more than a hiccup in the day’s activities. Before he left, and after he had found the 5 packets of sponges, he said
“Yea, I think I have everything I need for next time. Just don’t buy anymore sponges…or dish soap.”
I chuckled. Of course I wouldn’t. That would be crazy. And then yesterday, after I finished a recovery run on the treadmill, I decided to do some light grocery shopping. Up and down the aisles I went throwing things into my shopping basket. I got to the check out counter and started unloading my goods: head of lettuce, red bell pepper, zip lock bags, bananas, dish soap. Dish soap?! How’d that get in there?? I looked around me, inexplicably thinking someone might call me out on my crazy. I picked up the dish soap — Seventh Generation, lemongrass scented — and handed it to the check-out girl and said with a serious tone,
“You’d better take this.”
She gave me a sideways glance that said “this bitch is crazy,” took the soap as if it was nothing and continued scanning my items. I paid and walked out. Sorry, A&E, you’ll have to find a new star.
franklyrebekah 
you will have the cleanest dished in the apocalypse.