Bulletproof

I valiantly drench a cotton dish rag and target errant peas, shredded cheese and pasta pieces scattered like shrapnel beneath the dinner table. I wipe them from the face of the hardwood floor. It's like dinner never happened.

With carpet spray in one hand and a paper towel in the other, I obliterate cat vomit and erase its aftermath from the carpet before it has an opportunity to leave a stain.

I maul the contents of the litter box until solid waste has been removed and all that's left are rolling dunes of pristine odor-combating granules.

Sweat-drenched athletic socks and jogging shorts are no match for me. I fearlessly wrangle a mound of them into the washer machine, douse them with detergent and flip the lid. They are spring-fresh and fluffy-soft before they knew what hit them.

I trundle foul diapers into tiny plastic-wrapped packages and stealthily toss them into the trash bin like pungent stink grenades set to assault the unsuspecting waste-removal brigade on trash day.

Mildew in the shower, ring-around-the-toilet-bowl, cobwebbed chandeliers, surprise dead rodent in the hallway and all manner of icky things no one else can touch are no match for me.

I am a force to be reckoned with.

I am gallant -- undaunted by the grossest household antagonists.

I am untouchable ...

in my Purple. Rubber. Gloves.