Barefoot, in a tiny tank-top and my husband's boxers, I shook the damp linens flat and draped them over the deck's railing overlooking the cul-de-sac in my swanky suburban subdivision. It was on this day, a most glorious warm autumn Sunday, shortly after I ex-communicated my family from the house and forced them on a hike in the woods that I realized I was becoming my mom.

It's part of my genetical makeup as a Polish woman to seize the opportunity of a quiet house, to clean.  We don't clean like the rest of the non-Pole world.  Unless you too, single handily and half dressed, remove every single piece of furniture out of the room to vacuum.  Scrub the base board moldings.  Wash the walls.  All while waiting for your laundry to air dry outside you begin to dust, for the second time.  If you do, consider yourself half Polish on my behalf.

I am just glad that I was alone.  You know, to shield the next generation from witnessing the p0rnography behind a well cleaned home.