Friday, March 18, 2011

Where's the Hired Help When You Need It?

Morning Readers,

     Have you ever contemplated what's at the bottom of your toilet bowl? I haven't either, and I'd like to keep it that way. It doesn't change the fact that I have to look at it though. That's the type of thing poor people are forced to do....stare at the bottom of toilet bowls, while they simultaneously poke at it with a nasty bristle-brush, hoping against hope that once they extract their hand, bits of fecal matter, bird flu, Black plague, and other horrors, aren't stuck to it. This is why I need a staff. "Alfred?. Yes you. The toilets need to be cleaned today. Kindly sanitize them while I sunbathe, would you?....And bring me another Gin and Tonic."

     There's no gin in my bathroom( I keep that under my pillow), but there's definitely a few things that would knock you out, regardless. On the days that I'm brave enough to venture into the commode, Mr. Clean Magic Erasers in hand, baggy t-shirt proudly stating the date and time of my last pub crawl, I can't help but feel a bit defeated, even before I've ripped back the shower curtain and rolled in like a trench-bound soldier. Defeated because I know that I'm going to be grappling with things that Barnum and Bailey would gladly recruit for a sideshow acts.

"Ladies and Gentleman! Boys and girls of all ages! Gather round and see the bathroom atrocities! Here you can see the creepy crust lingering around the bottom of the toilet. Discovered in that foreign land where linoleum and porcelain meet. If that doesn't tickle your fancy, feast your eyes on the terrifying creature in the trashcan! Lock up your kids! Scientists have now determine that it's made of hairballs and old razors!"

     Our bathroom has yet to be re-modeled. To say it's "modeled" at all, may be somewhat of a stretch. That is to say, how does one label a 1960's style room with a weird-shaped toilet, no paint on the walls and some sort of manufactured blue molding around the floors? With all the thought put into that charming design, I'm surprised the builders didn't leave us with a hole in the backyard and a sign saying, "Poop Here".
     The fixtures are dated, the "dressing table" is missing a mirror (although the gold "movie starlet" lighting is still in tact, thank goodness. You know, for those times when you need to get your Golden Girl's costume juuust so.) and I don't even open the the wayward drawers at the bottom of the vanity, because I don't want to know where the former owners stashed their crack...I just don't.
     All of these things add up to a bathroom-cleaning experience that I'm not too eager to embark upon. Sure, my nails aren't manicured, and my current outfit signals to the general populace that I'm called to that type of work anyway, but that doesn't decrease my growing fear of having, yet another, rendezvous with the crack in the bottom of my tub that looks like a spider. Out of the seven near-heart-attack scenarios I've been privy to, the spider-crack as been responsible for five.
     But, as I wave for my imaginary butler, no one seems to be running to do my bidding. So it looks like I'll be doing my own toilet scrubbing......on Saturday.

Have a Great Weekend Readers!