Saturday, August 1, 2015

Dirty deed.

Yes, it's a dirty deed, but someone has to do it.

Be glad I didn't post a picture of the toilet.
When I got married---really, as a condition of getting married---I had to promise that I would maintain the bathroom. My fiancee was willing to clean the entire rest of the house, but could not face the can. I agreed. (Subsequently the deal has fallen to pieces except for one part; guess which!)*

I don't mind doing the toilet, I really don't. It's not like cleaning the toilet in a public place, like the Sara D. Roosevelt park bathroom on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, whose fumes were so toxic they hospitalized a maintenance worker. No one uses the can here but us, and those I allow in the house, so it's not too horrible a job. Besides, when going after the inside of the bowl you have brushes and powerful chemicals on your side. It's the outside of the toilet that bothers me.

No, really; that's where all the hairs collect, and clumps of dust. The vacuum won't pull them off that damp, cold porcelain. You have to get down there and wipe them off, with rags or paper towels or wipes, and the hairs and stuff still cling like it's the last lifeboat off the Titanic. After all that, the sink and shower are a piece of cake.

I've long said that cleaning toilets is a good way to work on humility. People who want to big themselves up start by hiring someone to clean the house. But as long as I have the physical capability to clean myself, I don't mind. Besides, I won't steal from the valuable collection of Franklin Mint coins and Danbury Mint figurines I display in the can. Can't say the same for the help.

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*(Love you, honey!)


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