Squeaky clean

I’d rather have bamboo shoots stuck under my fingernails than lift the feather duster, despite the fact that I come from a long line of meticulous women. Legend has it that my grandmother scrubbed the crevices of her tenement kitchen floor with a toothbrush, and the greatest compliment my mother could give one of the neighbors was, “You could eat off her floors.”

Unlike my mother, who cleaned every day, my rule of thumb is to tackle dirt only when I’m expecting guests. I hear my mother’s voice reporting on the state of cleanliness in so-and-so’s house when she’d return from a visit, so I dust, polish and scrub lest I fail some imaginary white-glove test.

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Twenty-five, and counting

I turned 25 last week. Early 20s, goodbye; mid-20s, “Hello, I’m Zac, nice to meet you.”

Next stop, late 20s, and then the dreaded 30 (dun, dun, DUN). I’m sure, it’ll be here before I know it.

I have started to see what everyone was talking about when they told me that time seems to move faster and faster as you get older. Mostly because that’s exactly how I would describe it to someone younger than me.

I had a pleasant birthday. The family, friends and colleagues who called, e-mailed or facebook messaged me ranged from different times and places in my life. The day felt a little like a reunion show of the sitcom of my life.

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