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Dear Daughter (16 going on 17),

Dear Daughter, 


Tuesday mornings are for mopping and this morning was no different. I keep a loose schedule around here, as you know, but you can count on me to wipe away the caked floor grime at least once or twice a week. I like to keep it relatively mindless so as to not create resentment for those who do not mop. That's not a passive aggressive dig, but merely a life strategy to remain zen amidst the mundane tasks that make up an existence. This morning began as usual. A half-ass sweep and then filling the mop bucket with hot, soapy water, the over-perfumed scent of Mrs. Meyer's geranium cleaner wafting through the air. As I stabbed the heavy-duty blue string mop into a corner, fighting the dust bunnies and dog hair, my mind refused to remain empty and instead fell into the memories associated with this particular task. Can one have an archive of mop memories? As it turns out, yes.  


I am embarrassed to admit that the first time I diligently used this tool of the cleaning game wasn't as a teenager in some greasy, dead-end fast-food job or at home being helpful to my mom (sorry mom). Nor was it at the junkyard cleaning the empire's office for my dad (that was a lost cause). Instead, it happened well into my twenties, after college, after holding zillions of other jobs, professional and otherwise. It happened humbly wrapped in a green apron embroidered with a sassy long-haired siren. That's right. It was the 1990s and Starbucks was just beginning to make its mark on LA and its surrounding burbs. And I was lucky enough to make the cut at a cafe in Claremont, California--home to the prestigious Claremont Colleges. Now this might not sound like a dream job to you, but for me after living in some pretty vibe-less places, being in the heart of a college town, surrounded by interesting and intelligent co-workers and customers, was a dream come true. Plus, there was health insurance. 


It wouldn't be a job that I would have for long, but it had a lasting impact on several fronts. First, it began a long-standing disdain for needlessly complex, over-sweetened drinks. This was the era in which a customer would order their drink "extra hot grande half caf skinny two pumps vanilla latte" and the green aproned saint would call out the request in proper Starbuckian order "half caf grande two pumps vanilla skinny extra hot latte" to the barista without flexing an eye roll. If ever you see me with that neutral, straight face in the midst of chaos, this is where I learned stoic, not quite resting bitch face. 


Second, no matter how long the line was or how many drinks were backed up on the bar, every 15-minutes someone was required to do some cleaning. Dipping out to tend to trash cans, napkin dispensers, and creamers felt like a betrayal at first to my fellow green aproned teammates. How could I leave my station to do something so menial? Why am I mopping the bathroom when there are a good fifty people in line that need assistance? The truth was that this was more than just a corporate policy, we actually felt a lot of pride in keeping the place as clean and as inviting as possible. The line would always be there. A mere five minutes of sprucing was an investment in our well-being. With time, I felt less guilt in excusing myself from taking orders or pulling espresso shots and more heroic in grabbing the mop to sop up spilled milk. And with even more time, I began to feel extreme pleasure in excusing myself for a cleaning spree, especially in response to angry middle-aged white man who demanded four pounds of ground coffee every Saturday at 7:20 am, his complex mix of 1/3 Papua New Guinea peaberry, 1/3 Ethiopian, and 1/3 Italian Espresso beans at a medium-fine grind. "Sorry entitled belligerent man, Kimi will help you, gotta grab a mop." Kimi would step in with her version of stoic not quite resting bitch face, scooping up beans while he barked out ratios and grinds. She may have wanted to sneak in a bean or two of a light roast to sabotage him, but didn't, as that would be giving too much time and effort to someone who did not deserve her attention. She had too much pride for that and he was one of hundreds that we would serve in a day.


These experiences happen when we most need to learn something. That said, this in-between job is one that I wish I had when I was your age--16 going on 17, and we were in the midst of Republican President George Bush Sr taking office (our version of Trump, albeit somewhat more refined), the height of the AIDs crisis, the end of the cold war, the beginning of the Gulf War and an economic downturn, not to mention the controversial appointment of gropey Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court. We didn't have the internet to turn to just yet for different perspectives (and misinformation or TikToks to exacerbate or distract us).


Instead, we read the headlines in the LA or NY Times, respectively, and wondered if the world was simply falling apart. 


It wasn't. Or at least not completely. 


No, the world kept going. 


Because the only thing one can do is grab a mop and care for one another. Time takes care of the rest. 


I love you, 

Mom


p.s. - feel free to take one for the team and grab a mop. I left it out next to the microwave. 










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