Saturday, March 24, 2012

The grossest job in the house.

I hate cleaning bathrooms.  Who doesn't, really?  Even if you live alone and the disgusting business belongs to no one but yourself, it's still the most vile of household chores.

I dread walking towards the door with my bucket of cleaning supplies.  I can put it off for weeks  sometimes secretly hoping that everyone will drop dead of E. Coli  before I actually have to face the nastiness.  I know what you, my dear friends and blog readers, are thinking.  I too, must use this room for my personal use.  It's quite simple actually.  I hold my needs and go to the local gas station where I expect it's much cleaner.

Yesterday, I had to face the daunting challenge of facing my sons' bathroom.  This is the worst chore of my housewifely duties.  This project produces nightmares.  Every day, as I walk past this door, I know what awaits me inside; dried toothpaste on the counter tops, smeared, greasy fingerprints with smiley face attempts on the mirrors, a broken light bulb which one of my genius, Aspergian sons attempted to fix on his own, a tub with miscellaneous adolescent pubic hairs attached to the soap (eeewww), and finally and most gruesome of all....the toilet. 

What is wrong with boys and making their target?  I ask you mothers, of the world - why can't our boys aim squarely into a large, oval receptacle without spraying the back walls, shower stall, and even - now this is the impressive part - the door a few feet behind them?  What's with that?  Now, this may perturb some of my male readers but I'm going for it.  You are not innocent in this either.  I realize that you have to do a little shake at the end, but for the sake of your wives, girlfriends, and mothers, could this please be over the bowl and not on the floor beneath it?  Guys, talk to your sons.  Teach them.  Pleeeeaaaase.

Before I entered their nasty restroom, I actually had to psych myself up.  I did some jumping jacks.  I took deep breaths.  I promised myself a reward at the end.  I haven't given myself anything yet; however, based on the level of grossness I encountered, my prize will be impressive.

Of course, everyone in my house knows when I'm cleaning this room.  I hold nothing back.  I moan.  I groan.  I hiss and utter such sounds of disgust, one would think I'm cleaning the locker room of a professional football team.  Nope, just one small bathroom of two teenage boys of which I had thoroughly cleaned not more than a week ago.  Oh, dear God in Heaven!!  Do you think someone would apologize?  Offer their poor mother a bottle of water?  No, William simply walks by and says,  "It's pretty disgusting, isn't it, Mom?"  Do you think?