Squeaky White Christmas

In the last two years, I have fallen into a rather strange Christmas habit. Lets call it a Christmas tradition. This came about after a Christmas visit from my mother in law. While at the house those couple years back she spent much of her time either cleaning or cooking.

Sadly however, after that visit--or because of it--she and my wife had a falling out, and she has not visited us since. Now there are certain things, as the passage of time has proven, that only Salma will do. Cleaning the bathtub is one of these things. At various points throughout the year we may go as far as to notice this and confess a certain desire for another visit by mom.

It is sort of a running joke, you might say. Whenever the subject of some mutually deplorable job arises, it is a safe bet that one or the other of us will say "I wish mom were here."

But of course neither wishing nor joking has any effect on the bathtub itself. It simply continues to gather grime.

And so it has become my Christmas tradition to clean the grimy bathtub. While other people play with their toys or listen to new music or eat candy and cake, or go back to sleep, I ceremoniously remove all my clothing, retrieve the stiff bristled wooden handled brush that is used for nothing else, climb into the tub, toxic spray bottles in hand, and scrub! Off comes a year's worth of no longer useful dirt, swirling merrily down the drain. Oh look! It's white underneath!

White Christmas.

Take that, Mom!

Now what about that laundry room, that corner where the mouse lives. He must have a family by now . . .

Should I? Should I expand my seasonal tradition?

Well, maybe just wait for New Years Eve.