Before I throw away a sponge that has reached the end of its life — it’s tattering, smelly, and/or grimy — I will use that sponge to clean the dirtiest area of the house. Sometimes it’s under the hanging precipice of the refrigerator. Other times it is the narrow slot of tile behind and around the toilet. Once, and only once, it was the top of all the interior door and window frames. I will exhaust you, poor sponge, until all your pores are clogged with domestic detritus.
Tonight it was, shamefully, the trash can, which foments lustily in the summer heat with fish bones and melon rinds. No need to worry about cross-contamination. I gingerly grasped a particularly putrid sponge and set upon scrubbing away all of the random dried splatters, crumbs, and bits from the plastic white shell. When I finished, I unfurled a garbage bag into the hygienic receptacle and tossed the sponge into it. Like a sadistic murderer who made her victim dig their own grave.
