Snow Day #4: The Little Things
I was starting to feel useless today. I've had six days off, including the weekend, because of weather and our office move. I still haven't written the greatest novel ever written, nor have I found a cure for cancer, but they're both on my to-do list. I wound up refilling the hand soap dispenser, cleaning my refrigerator, and taking a shower. Strangely, accomplishing these small tasks still made me feel like I had contributed to the sanctity of the universe.

If someone should visit and need to use our restroom, he will find soap at the press of a button. I've run into my fair share of empty hand soap dispensers in private residences and businesses and it's just plain disconcerting and off-putting. What kind of person doesn't see basic hygiene or the comfort of their guest as a priority? It's a cornerstone of a civilized society, a silent agreement we share in our culture, which says, "I've just washed my hands after using the restroom, so you won't have to touch my genitalia." It's an issue of common decency and respect to me.

I cleaned my fridge because it looked as if it had shat itself down the back wall. Every time I opened the door, I imagined the refrigerator looking away awkwardly, embarrassed. It believed it was just going to fart, but it had forgotten it had just eaten Chinese food and Chinese never "agreed" with the refrigerator. I would vindicate the honor of this magnificent beast of burden. It chills my Diet Mountain Dew to perfection and magically crushes my ice just the way I like it without nary a whir or click of protest. I just wished I had done it earlier considering the Beef & Broccoli Debacle had occurred some time around Thanksgiving of last year. I am a benevolent dictator, not necessarily a timely one.

And lastly, the shower: overdue if not just necessary for a full-grown adult male. My son has a couple of female acquaintances and they become braggadocios, to bolster their 'Street Cred' amongst their male peers, and proclaim that they sometimes don't shower for up to three days on long weekends. I liken a teenage girl not showering for three days to a kitten: if you picked either of them up after three days, they'd both still smell like "kitten" and freshly washed bed linen. If I don't shower for three days, I have the carbon footprint of a small African village, which allows their livestock to live in their huts with the family. There are barnacles and mattes of hair, and only razors and the discretionary use wood chisels will remedy this abominable lack of hygiene.

I don't know where the rest of my day will carry me, or what stupendous act of contrition I shall perform for the betterment of all mankind, but I know it shall be with clean hands, an appropriately chilled beverage, and clean heart. Good day to you gentlepeople.