Window Cleaning Funny Quotes

When she emerged, Keith was watching the tiny round window of the under-the-counter washing machine. "Put your clothes in for a wash," he said. "They were disgusting." Ginny always thought that the only way of getting clothes clean was by drowning them in scalding water and then whipping them around in a violent centrifugal motion that caused the entire washing machine to vibrate and the floor to shake. You beat them clean. You made them suffer. This machine used about half a cup of water and was about as violent as a toaster, plus it stopped every few minutes, as if it were exhausted from the effort of turning itself. Sluff, sluff, sluff sluff. Rest. Rest. Rest. Click. Sluff, sluff, sluff, sluff. Rest. Rest. Rest. "Who thought to put a window on a washing machine?" Keith asked. "Does anyone just sit and watch their wash?" You mean, besides us?" "Well," he said, "yeah. Is there any coffee?

I have a funny story about your dad,” John says, looking at me sideways. I groan. “Oh no. What did he do?” “It wasn’t him; it was me.” He clears his throat. “This is embarrassing.” I rub my hands together in anticipation. “So, I went over to your house to ask you to eighth grade formal. I had this whole extravagant plan.” “You never asked me to formal!” “I know, I’m getting to that part. Are you going to let me tell the story or not?” “You had a whole extravagant plan,” I prompt. John nods. “So I gathered a bunch of sticks and some flowers and I arranged them into the letters FORMAL? in front of your window. But your dad came home while I was in the middle of it, and he thought I was going around cleaning people’s yards. He gave me ten bucks, and I lost my nerve and I just went home.” I laugh. “I…can’t believe you did that.” I can’t believe that this almost happened to me. What would that have felt like, to have a boy do something like that for me? In the whole history of my letters, of my liking boys, not once has a boy liked me back at the same time as I liked him. It was always me alone, longing after a boy, and that was fine, that was safe. But this is new. Or old. Old and new, because it’s the first time I’m hearing it. “The biggest regret of eighth grade,” John says, and that’s when I remember--how Peter once told me that John’s biggest regret was not asking me to formal, how elated I was when he said it, and then how he quickly backtracked and said he was only joking.

Ben is an awfully good brother,” said Mal. “And he’s polite and funny.” “Is he thrifty, honest, clean, hard-working, and considerate of old ladies?” asked Claudia with a smile. Mal turned away from the window, looking as if she were in the middle of a wonderful dream. “Yes,” she replied. “Then I think you should, you know, go after him,” said Dawn. “Me? Go after a boy?” asked Mal. “Sure. Why not?” “Well, okay,” said Mal quickly. “I think I will.

Find window streaks by cleaning the outside with horizontal strokes and the inside with vertical strokes. Any streaks you see will tell you which side of the pane they are on.

When the environment is stuffy and full of arrogant, self-styled men and women, the dralas are repelled. But then, what happens if a warrior, someone who embodies nonaggression, freedom from arrogance, and humbleness, walks into that room? When such a person enters an intense situation full of arrogance and pollution, quite possibly the occupants of the room begin to feel funny. They feel that they can’t have any fun and games anymore, because someone who won’t collaborate in their deception has walked in. They can’t continue to crack setting-sun jokes or indulge and sprawl on the floor, so usually they will leave. The warrior is left alone, sitting in that room. But then, after a while, a different group of people may walk in, looking for a fresh room, a clean atmosphere. They begin to assemble—gentle people who smile without arrogance or aggression. The atmosphere is quite different from the previous setting-sun gathering. It may be slightly more rowdy than in the opium den, but the air is cheerful and fresh. Then there is the possibility that the dralas will begin to peek through the doors and the windows. They become interested, and soon they want to come in, and one by one they enter. They accept food and drink, and they relax in that atmosphere, because it is pure and clean. Because that atmosphere is without arrogance, the dralas begin to join in and share their greater sanity.

You have absolutely no idea how dirty your windows actually are until you clean them

A Window Without Curtains She was called Mira by her clients, though it wasn’t her real name. Her real name had been shed years ago, discarded like an old skin in a city that didn’t care for pasts. She walked through the night in cheap perfume and tighter smiles, her heels echoing on concrete that never forgot the stories of women like her. By daylight, she was invisible. By night, she was needed. Room 403 was like the others. Beige walls. A bed that smelled of cleaning chemicals and regret. A window that didn’t open, without curtains, as if the hotel itself had given up pretending to offer privacy or dreams. Tonight, the man was late. Mira didn’t mind. The quiet was better company than most. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the flickering red numbers on the digital clock. 9:46. The room buzzed faintly from an old neon light outside. She could see its pink glow on the wall, shaped like the outline of a woman, eternally lit and forever waiting. She used to wait like that — in doorways, under blinking signs, for someone who would change things. A man with kind eyes. A job that didn’t come with bruises. A way out. But hope, she had learned, was a luxury sold to people with options. Not to girls like her. She met Layla at the corner of 52nd and Main three years ago. Layla had been in the game longer, a little older, a little harder. She smoked menthols and always carried pepper spray and a knife in her purse. "Hope gets you killed," Layla said once, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand. “You dream, you slip. You slip, you die.” Mira remembered laughing. Not because it was funny — but because it was the only sound she could make that didn’t feel like screaming. The client finally showed. Tall, maybe mid-40s, with a wedding ring he didn’t bother to hide. “I don’t want to talk,” he said, tossing a crumpled wad of bills on the dresser. She nodded. It was easier that way. Words were dangerous — they made people real. She didn't want him to be real. She went through the motions. The fake moans. The practiced eyes. She thought of the ceiling, counted the little bumps in the paint, kept her breath even. When he left, she showered with the water scalding hot, scrubbing skin that never quite felt clean. Then she sat back on the bed, legs folded, watching the window again. It was raining now. The neon woman outside still smiled. One night, a month ago, Mira had walked into a bookstore. She didn’t know why. Maybe because it was raining, and she had nowhere to be yet. Maybe because it smelled like old paper and safety. She wandered in wet heels past shelves full of stories — princesses, detectives, women who fought dragons. She picked up a poetry book and flipped it open. The words were soft. Angry. Beautiful. “Do you want help finding something?” the clerk asked. Mira looked up, startled. The girl behind the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty, with round glasses and gentle eyes. “No,” Mira whispered, holding the book tighter. She didn’t buy it. She left without a word. But she came back two days later. And again the week after. She never bought anything. Just touched the spines and read a line or two. Something about it made her feel almost human again. Tonight, she opened her little purse. The one with the broken zipper. Inside were five twenties from the client, a stick of gum, a cracked compact, and a folded receipt from the bookstore. She stared at the receipt like it was a relic. Like it belonged to someone else.