Grabbing a Fistful of Hair
I wish I was talking about raucous sex, but it’s a clean story instead.
Standing in the doorway to the bathroom the girls share, I shudder in disgust, and vow the second they are all out of the house, I am going to clean it.
Even though I instituted a new cleaning schedule for my girls to follow, let’s be kind and say they’ve ignored me. When I mention every now and again that it’s past time for the room to see a sponge, everyone shrugs and goes about their business. I wish I was more of a hard-ass about cleaning but schedules went out the window when COVID came to town.
Additional female guests of the girls have come and gone, adding their own germs, splatters, and trash.
I’m not sure how often is necessary to clean a bathroom over the course of a year, but surely the number is greater than five.
C-Day unceremoniously arrived and I donned my crappiest clothes, grabbed my beloved rubber gloves, got out a bucket, a roll of paper towels, rags, a scrubbing brush, and various cleaners that purport to make cleaning “fun,” and trudged up the stairs like a prisoner heading to her execution.
The bathroom isn’t huge but I wanted to make sure every crevice, every surface, every square inch of the square footage was immaculate in case…
