Ask anyone and they will tell you that I employ a laissez- faire attitude toward all things housekeeping.
Just one glance at our upstairs bathroom would confirm any evil suspicions you may have harbored about me as it looks like the dimly lit filth pit where crack whores go to die but then they decide it’s too low rent for them so they go expire in the alley instead.
But when it comes to the one “public face of urination and defecation” aka “The middle floor bathroom” that the outside world may have to use, we manage to keep it in the kind of shape that prevents shame with the help of my cleaning woman and an occasional spritz of Clorox disinfectant.
Today there was some sort of meteorological shit storm that had secretly taken place and left its filthy tell-tale signs all over the place.
Very rarely does something happen that makes me spring into action like shit being someplace that it should not be.
If you step in dog crap, I’m right on your heels sniffing everything in sight to see what you might have contaminated.
One of the dogs leaves a pile poop on one of our many rugs? I’ve got a fistful of paper towels, some Resolve and fifteen minutes carved out of my internet surfing schedule to take care of it.
One of my offspring makes a mess of the downstairs toilet? I turn into a sleuth with a specialty in fecal forensics and the shaming power of a thousand angry nuns.
This is sad AND ironic because I am a horrible slob with no real leg to stand on here.
My mother has even refused to stay longer than two hours at my home because the mess and chaos inwardly infuriates her but she’s still too stressed out by her job to realize that the smudge covered swirling piles of garbage are what’s causing that nagging desire to flee.
So anyway, I started my “loud talking” asking questions about the bathroom mess in a public accusatory way that sounded a LOT like Faye Dunaway in Mommy Dearest wondering aloud “how this mess got here” while people actively ignored me.
I thought it would only be a matter of time before the guilty party would be felled by my arrow of justice, but no.
Then trying to cleverly twist the whole wretched thing around I began asking recent bathroom visitors if it had been a “long” or “short” stay to narrow down my list of suspects but I came up empty-handed.
In the end I just decided to give up the fight and use the bottle of cleaner to take care of business just like every other rational adult does. Especially since the breakfast dishes were looking at me with accusatory glances,waiting for a response.