I refer to the kitchen variety — that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.
Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.
Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less … discerning … ?
Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.
I hate the sponge, so much so that I can’t bear to watch him do the dishes.
Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he’s using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.
Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.
“Hey, where’s my sponge?” Hubs will inquire indignantly.
I point to the trash can.
“Why?” he asks plaintively. “Why?”
Because I can’t stand the texture — slimey, squishy. Because I can’t stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don’t you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you’re at it?
But I just stick with, “It was gross. So I pitched it.”
And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.
But he continues to stock up on sponges.
And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper.