My magic gloves

I truly believe that my rubber gloves are magic.

Without fail, every time I put them on, something happens to me. I turn into a happy cleaning machine.

Case in point: About an hour ago, I told Andrew I wanted to scrapbook SO bad because I had some great ideas. He suggested that we just pick up a little first. I put Eva down for her nap, and Andrew put Leighton down. I looked around the living room and thought, "I'll just vacuum really fast." So I did. Few things make me feel better about my life than vacuum lines in the carpet, as I'm sure I've said before. On my way back to put the vacuum away in the closet, I vacuumed the kitchen floor. Then I thought, "I'll just do a few dishes." So I did. The easy ones, anyway. The George Foreman I used last night sat filthily on the kitchen counter staring at me, daring me to try to get the dried-on blackened bits off of it. Then, I saw one rubber glove lying on the floor. (Eva likes to play with them too.) And then, the magic of the gloves took over.

I slipped the bright yellow gloves on my hands, and got to work. Maybe it's that I love not feeling the dirtiness on my skin when I do dishes. Maybe it's that the smell of the gloves takes me back to happy childhood days of watching my Mom wear gloves and clean the kitchen. Whatever it is, it took over. And before I knew it, my kitchen was clean.

(Now that I know the power of the magic gloves, I may just have to upgrade my plain old yellow ones to something more fun, like these.)