Swiffer Salsa

Oops, I must have driven an inch because the gas gauge is on quarter full. The weekend’s coming up, there will be errands to run and stuff to do so I’d better fill up.

The weekend is a funny concept for me now that Everyday is Saturday. Today is Saturthursday by my reckoning, although I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep track of the days. Light and dark is more my style, anyway. If I need to keep track of time I’ll drag some stones from El Paso and set them up in a circle in my front yard. Yeah, the neighbors might object at first, but once the ceremonies start and the wine flows I’m sure they’ll fall in line.

Anyway, back to the gas pump. The modern gas stations are wonderful these days. Self-serve, in and out, no muss, no fuss.

Usually.

Today it went like this:

Swipe card. Swiped.

Credit or Debit? Credit.

Car wash? No.

Receipt? No.

Approved! Select grade and begin fueling.

I pressed the “87” and waited. Waited. Waited. And waited.

No fuel. I heard a beep and the display announced “Transaction terminated.”

WTF?

Swipe card. Swiped.

Credit or Debit? Credit.

Car wash? No.

Receipt? No.

Approved! Select grade and begin fueling.

I pressed the “87” and waited. Waited. Waited. While I waited I observed some birds fighting over a French fry, several people fuel up and leave, and the transit of Mars in the House of Pluto, but no fuel.

Then, microseconds before I heard the beep and saw “Transaction terminated” for the second time I observed the tiny red button labeled “Start.” Further observation revealed that the “87” was a sticker, not a button. A decoy, not the real thing.

Cautiously I checked around for a hidden camera just in case I was being punked, but seeing none I nonchalantly pulled out my credit for a third time…

Swipe.

Gassed up, finally, and ready to roll I headed out to pick up a few items for dinner which I decided would be a grilled pork strips on vermicelli and salad; a light meal for a hot June evening.

While at the store I rounded the cleaning aisle and nearly ran into a display of Swiffers. Swiffers are a floor cleaning device consisting of a pole, flat rubberized thing on the end and magical, disposable pad that picks up hair and dust and stuff (mostly stuff) and after you’ve Swiffered your floor you can throw the disposable pad away. Hence disposable.

Normally, I would not be intrigued by a Swiffer display but today, of all days, I was contemplating Zoe Hair.

What is Zoe Hair? Zoe Hair is a fine, grey fluff-ball of hair that finds its way from my daughter’s Persian cat, Zoe, to the floor. We’re keeping Zoe for the summer and she’s a nice cat as far as cats go, and she doesn’t shed that much, but the house has begun to collect these wisps of Zoe Hair that waltz their away across the hardwood floors like little Persian whirling dervishes.

Enter the Swiffer. Hey, I thought, that would be just the thing for collecting the dervishes to keep them from whirling. So, I bought a Swiffer and true to its claim it does the job. The dervishes are drawn to the Swiffer like a moth to a flame and our floors are now a Zoe Hair Free Zone. Yea, Swiffer!

But, there’s more. I discovered that the Swiffer is the ideal salsa dance partner. True! I put on Cuka Rocka by Chingon and turned it up loud. We were off!

She glided across the floor. She swiveled smoothly. She’s light and flirty! We slid through the family room, under the little table, behind the couch, along the baseboard. Then into the kitchen, by the breakfast bar, Cuka Rocka! Through the pantry into the dining room we shifted and twisted, pivoted around the big table and spilled into the foyer, twist and dip, twist and dip. Finally, I gave her a great spin and we collapsed against the front door gasping for breath.

I think I could enter a dance competition. Of course, I’d need Zoe. And a cat brush.