Spring Cleaning and Couch Rash

Spring cleaning, to me, means springing up from the couch, turning off Farmville and quickly cleaning the house because my husband is coming home soon. Yesterday, however, the cleaning bug grabbed me by the seat of my pants. I ripped the house apart and sucked up a vacuum bag full of dust. Moving the couch away from the wall is always an adventure. A few pine needles, a pen, and even the match to a sock that has been in laundry room for a month. While on my hands and knees picking up what my mother always called “crippy-crappies” I noticed the side of our black leather couch was spotted. Looking over at the love seat and chair, they too had the same rash. I got a rag and some leather cleaner, and went to work. Hummm… Is the leather pitted? No, that’s an optical illusion. Whatever it is, it’s not coming off. Did my husband splatter something while renovating? Cement maybe? No, that can’t be it. I finally decided it was glue. Strong glue. Damn kids must have been doing arts and crafts on the furniture. Probably happened at Christmas time when they were making the window decorations. The leather cleaner wasn’t doing shit to get it off. I got my other rag wet with Meister Proper (Febreze scent) . Scrub, scrub. It still wasn’t coming off, but it was getting loose. I finally had to scrape off the glue with my thumb nail. That worked well. Scrape, scrape. After a while, my thumb nail was getting full. I scraped the glue out from under the nail, and balled it up. I wanted to drop it, as I hadn’t yet vacuumed. No luck, it was stuck. I wiped it on my pants, but every time I wiped my hands on them thereafter, it re-stuck. WTF. It wasn’t until I FLICKED the ball off my finger that I realized it wasn’t glue. There is only one thing that gets flicked, and that, my friends, is a booger. I was reminded of a joke I heard when I was about ten years old.
Two men are sitting on a park bench. One man’s head keeps twitching, as if to signal – come here. He is approached by a stranger. “Excuse me, sir. Were you telling me to come over?” “No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “I was injured in the war, and ever since then I’ve had this twitch.” The stranger looked at the other man on the park bench and asked if he was also injured in the war. “Oh no,” he said, flicking his finger. “I just have a booger of my finger and I can’t get it off.”