Quotes About Cleaning

Why couldn't the Buddhist vacuum in corners? A. Because she had no attachments.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder has at least a hundred different manifestations in both humans and vampires. Shane sorts. Regina counts. Spencer cleans. Noah watches where and how he walks, aligning his feet with the pattern of the carpet or grains of hardwood. Monroe and I share an obsession with words, rearranging the letters on signs or parsing definitions (he's learned to do it all in his head, while I often blurt out a grammatical correction in a rude and embarrassing way).

It was not the first time I had caught her so. She used to come to us for two hours every morning to clean up the workshop; and though one might leave as much money lying around as one liked she would never disturb it—but schnapps she could smell out as far off as a rat a slice of bacon.

There's something wrong with a mother who washes out a measuring cup with soap and water after she's only measured water in it.

As the father of two young girls, I have come to the realization that they are just as messy as boys but the dirt that they create around the house is comprised of at least 50% glitter.

Not to mention the fact that it was making horrible dents in her best Chinese carpet.

My mother used to laugh that if they asked me to clean up my room, I would spend so much time reading every tiny bit of paper, a receipt or whatever, instead of throwing it in the trash.

The dishwasher is the best invention in the world, I didn't grow up with one so it's my prize possession in the kitchen!

I can make eggs. I can do a quesadilla. But the last thing I want to do when I come home is cook and clean up dishes. I'm not that domestic a girl.

Cleaning isn't all that interesting to me. I'm disorganized.

I have found ways to kill this ever-present feeling of loneliness. I try a new dish and experiment with food, I'll clean my cupboard, do the little things in the house, and I keep myself busy. I find things to do.

Cooking is about presenting flavors and other aspects of food in a way that makes best use of them and makes an engaging, satisfying meal. Taste necessarily comes into it along with technique. Some ingredients require cooking, cleaning or otherwise denaturing them, some are fine as they are.

The U.S. has a proud history of cleaning up our air through technological innovation. We did it with leaded gas, acid rain and countless other pollutants, and we can do it with carbon pollution, too.

I have this Waterpik that shoots water between your teeth. It's great. You do that along with flossing, and you know for a fact you've cleaned your mouth as much as humanly possible. It's like going to the dentist every night in your bathroom. I don't know if it's a floss replacement, but in conjunction with flossing, it's great.

The best job was when I was at drama school and I cleaned flats in the Barbican. I loved it. They were spotless anyway, so you'd just watch the telly and flick a duster around.

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;I'll only stop to rake the leaves away(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):I shan't be gone long.—You come too.

Lamps were not left burning on the table when dinner was over; before going to bed, the mistress of the house - who had a part to play in family priestly duties - saw to it that the house was swept, the lararium and the hearth carefully cleaned.

Those single-track military minds never think to ask their cleaning staff for help in giant lethal marauding creature matters.

if you don't flush out the pipes, they'll run brown.

Perhaps it was a knack that humans had, for cleaning up their untidy existences - a hidden survival weapon, like antibodies in the bloodstream.

too, first rinsing Khenkin off my coat, which was easy

door wide open. Patty pointed. Shorty said, "It's for cleaning your ears. Or drying them. Maybe both. They have two ends. I've seen them in the drugstore." "Why is it there?" "Someone missed the trash can. Maybe it bounced off the rim, and rolled out of sight. Happens all the time. The maids don't care." She said, "Go back to your lawn chair, Shorty." He did.

When I arrived, he was in the kitchen, in the middle of his Sunday morning ritual of cleaning his cleaning supplies.

High above it all, the window washers hoist themselves up by the miracle of rope and hover in midair on small planks to clean away the grit of so many dreams discarded. They wipe their cloths until the lives on the other side of the window become clearer. Every now and then, faces appear at these windows. Eyes meet for a second, maybe two, the observed and the observer each surprised to find the other exists. Then they look quickly away, the connection unmade, islands once more.