the bathroom knocks
I am so proud of myself. I finally did it. I started cleaning the bathroom.
This morning I spent a at least two hours on my hands and knees, scrubbing, Scrubbing, SCRUBBING the tub and grouty-groutness with anything I could find that was even remotely abrasive, including an old toothbrush. Okay, not so old. It was one I'd used until this very morning. But now it's old and I feel super cool and domestically divine having now cleaned a bathroom with a toothbrush.
ME, off-handedly: You know, I use a toothbrush when I clean the bathroom. You can really get into those hard to reach corners. (Flicking an invisible speck of lint from my invisible lapel.) That's been my experience, anyway.
I'm a little disappointed, though because my original plan was to go all out -- really do some good -- and reporcelain the tub. (Are you not so extremely impressed with my ambition?) Except that when I got the reporcelaining kit home, the instructions INSIDE the box explained in very strict language that it takes 5-7 days (during which time you may not under any circumstances use the tub), a degree in chemical engineering, the patience of Job and a Hazmat suit to accomplish the task safely and correctly.
Or you could die.
Or I could die? I don't want to die in a freak reporcelaining accident. And I'm a corner-cutter, so the likelihood of my dying is much higher than the average person's in this sort of situation. I could end up "winning" a Darwin Award -- "Woman Paints Herself to Death in Bathtub" -- and that, my friends, is one of my greatest fears. I am SO AFRAID that I will die doing something ridiculously stupid and anything decent I've ever done will be washed away by that one moment of idiocy.
YOU: We thought she was smarter than that. And such a good writer, too. Guess we were wrong, huh?
ME as a ghost: No, no! I am. . .I mean. . .I was, smart! I swear! It's just that the instructions got wet. I couldn't read the whole thing. I didn't know about ventilation! I was too a good writer!! My mother even said so! Mom?!"
MOM: I don't know where I went wrong. They say that music makes kids smarter. Maybe if I'd only put her in those steel guitar classes she always wanted to take. She so loved the steel guitar . . .
ME as a ghost: I did NOT!
MOM: . . . and that TV show, you remember? The one with Barbara Mandrel? She absolutely adored the Mandrel sisters. Maybe that should have been my clue. . .
No. Absolutely not. Not over a rental tub. It's just too humiliating to contemplate. The tub is clean enough. I'll just have to rip a page from the Buddhist handbook and practice non-attachment while taking stand up showers.
Anyway, the whole time I was scrubbing and rinsing and spraying and scrubbing and spraying and rinsing I was -- of course -- singing the only two lines I remember of "It's a Hard Knock Life" and as I watched the grout grudgingly begin to not quite shine (like the top of the Chrysler Building!), I had three thoughts. Number one. No bathroom acoustics on the planet could improve the quality of my singing. Two. Someday I would really enjoy having enough money to pay someone else to do this and I hope that someday is like, next week. And three. While I have anything but the hard knock life, I have yet to meet my Daddy Warbucks. And I don't mean that in the sugar daddy, I want a daddy, spank me daddy sort of way. I mean it in the fate's-come-a-knockin'-sister, better-put-on-my-Sunday-best sort of way. Not that I'm worried. Just contemplative. Annie cleaned her fair share of bathrooms before Daddy W. entered the picture and she had no idea he was coming to take her to the land of silver platters and chandeliers. Maybe once my bathroom's completely clean and after I clear out, organize and set up that back bedroom as the office/art studio it's always wanted to be, he'll pop on by my place for some apple cart conversation and a tap dance or two. Reason enough to scrub-a-dub-dub, no?
In the meantime, we sing!
It's a hard knock life for us
It's a hard knock life for us
'stead of kisses, we get kicks
'stead of hmm-hmm, we get tricks(?)
It's a hard knock life!!!
*Dance break*
This morning I spent a at least two hours on my hands and knees, scrubbing, Scrubbing, SCRUBBING the tub and grouty-groutness with anything I could find that was even remotely abrasive, including an old toothbrush. Okay, not so old. It was one I'd used until this very morning. But now it's old and I feel super cool and domestically divine having now cleaned a bathroom with a toothbrush.
ME, off-handedly: You know, I use a toothbrush when I clean the bathroom. You can really get into those hard to reach corners. (Flicking an invisible speck of lint from my invisible lapel.) That's been my experience, anyway.
I'm a little disappointed, though because my original plan was to go all out -- really do some good -- and reporcelain the tub. (Are you not so extremely impressed with my ambition?) Except that when I got the reporcelaining kit home, the instructions INSIDE the box explained in very strict language that it takes 5-7 days (during which time you may not under any circumstances use the tub), a degree in chemical engineering, the patience of Job and a Hazmat suit to accomplish the task safely and correctly.
Or you could die.
Or I could die? I don't want to die in a freak reporcelaining accident. And I'm a corner-cutter, so the likelihood of my dying is much higher than the average person's in this sort of situation. I could end up "winning" a Darwin Award -- "Woman Paints Herself to Death in Bathtub" -- and that, my friends, is one of my greatest fears. I am SO AFRAID that I will die doing something ridiculously stupid and anything decent I've ever done will be washed away by that one moment of idiocy.
YOU: We thought she was smarter than that. And such a good writer, too. Guess we were wrong, huh?
ME as a ghost: No, no! I am. . .I mean. . .I was, smart! I swear! It's just that the instructions got wet. I couldn't read the whole thing. I didn't know about ventilation! I was too a good writer!! My mother even said so! Mom?!"
MOM: I don't know where I went wrong. They say that music makes kids smarter. Maybe if I'd only put her in those steel guitar classes she always wanted to take. She so loved the steel guitar . . .
ME as a ghost: I did NOT!
MOM: . . . and that TV show, you remember? The one with Barbara Mandrel? She absolutely adored the Mandrel sisters. Maybe that should have been my clue. . .
No. Absolutely not. Not over a rental tub. It's just too humiliating to contemplate. The tub is clean enough. I'll just have to rip a page from the Buddhist handbook and practice non-attachment while taking stand up showers.
Anyway, the whole time I was scrubbing and rinsing and spraying and scrubbing and spraying and rinsing I was -- of course -- singing the only two lines I remember of "It's a Hard Knock Life" and as I watched the grout grudgingly begin to not quite shine (like the top of the Chrysler Building!), I had three thoughts. Number one. No bathroom acoustics on the planet could improve the quality of my singing. Two. Someday I would really enjoy having enough money to pay someone else to do this and I hope that someday is like, next week. And three. While I have anything but the hard knock life, I have yet to meet my Daddy Warbucks. And I don't mean that in the sugar daddy, I want a daddy, spank me daddy sort of way. I mean it in the fate's-come-a-knockin'-sister, better-put-on-my-Sunday-best sort of way. Not that I'm worried. Just contemplative. Annie cleaned her fair share of bathrooms before Daddy W. entered the picture and she had no idea he was coming to take her to the land of silver platters and chandeliers. Maybe once my bathroom's completely clean and after I clear out, organize and set up that back bedroom as the office/art studio it's always wanted to be, he'll pop on by my place for some apple cart conversation and a tap dance or two. Reason enough to scrub-a-dub-dub, no?
In the meantime, we sing!
It's a hard knock life for us
It's a hard knock life for us
'stead of kisses, we get kicks
'stead of hmm-hmm, we get tricks(?)
It's a hard knock life!!!
*Dance break*
posted by jill at 9/04/2004 10:45:00 PM
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