If Given the Opportunity...

I would like to meet the man who came up with the brilliant idea that is the glass shower, and punch him in the balls.  Repeatedly.  So hard and so fast, that they travel all the way up his throat at which point he chokes to death on them.  Honestly.  What idiot thought that was a good idea?  And the reason I am assuming that the inventor was a man is because no woman would voluntarily want to add more work to her cleaning repertoire.  She just wouldn't.  This is purely the invention of a man who didn't think for one minute about the poor woman who was going to be forced to stand there for an hour with the glass door closed, breathing in the fumes, scrubbing furiously until her fingers are red, her eyes burning from the chemicals, and her patience just thin enough to consider murder an appropriate decompression therapy after the trauma obtained while scrubbing said shower.  I'm sure all he thought about was how sexy she was going to look showering off afterwards.  Well I've got news for him…no woman who spends the better part of her morning scrubbing a shower wants anything to do with anything he might have thought up while watching her shower through that pristine glass…which is, as she washes, collecting more soap scum to be scrubbed off at a later date.

I just spent the last 2 hours cleaning our bathrooms…one hour of which was spent solely in the the glass shower.  I have decided that I will never do it again.  Not that it won't ever be cleaned again, but next time I will be paying someone else to do it.  I don't care what people think about that or how much it costs…I literally cannot even look at that glass torture chamber without wanting to take a sledgehammer to each pane of its transparent evil.  And you know the worst part?  After I'm done, and the glass is sparkling, the spots that I missed become painfully obvious, mocking me, revealing to everyone that even though I was in there scrubbing non-stop for a full freaking hour, I didn't do a good enough job.  Glass Shower: 1, Stefanie: 0.  Well screw you, glass shower.  I'm going to use the other shower.  The one with the bathtub and the curtain.  The curtain that when soiled, either gets tossed in the washer or tossed in the garbage…win-win for me as I'd much rather do laundry or drop $5 at Target on a new curtain than scrub soap scum off of glass.

And one of the most infuriating things about cleaning the bathroom?  The dog hair.  Hands down, almost as frustrating as scrubbing the glass, although not quite.  The dog hair is ubiquitous in our house, apparently, and appears to be attracted to clean surfaces more so than any other surface (outside of the comforter that Grandma E and I made out of corduroy…the dog dog hair, sadly, will most likely never be fully removed from that thing).  I wanted to punch through the wall every time I swept a surface with a clean rag, only to see a spattering of dog hair left in its wake.

And then there's the toilet…ah that bloody, bastardly toilet.  I hate that thing.  After scrubbing the pee drops and the poop splatters from its gleaming porcelain surface, I'm contemplating just going to the bathroom out in the woods.  Heck, if it's good enough for those morons lighting the woods behind our house on fire (repeatedly), then it's good enough for me.  I think I can even manage to poop in the woods without lighting them on fire, which makes me better than them by leaps and bounds.

I have to wonder what Simon was thinking from his post in the kitchen, listening to me swear a blue streak as I got cleaning stuff in my eye, I repeatedly dropped the scrub brush, the cleaning bucket tipped over, the dog hair…that damn dog hair.

It's no secret that I hate cleaning…there's a reason I do it so infrequently.  Ask anyone who's lived with me.  My poor college roommates…although, to be fair, I don't think any of us outside of Naomi were actually clean people.  I would say that I'm tidy…I will pick up after myself…if only that were enough.  Simon is the first man I've lived with who actually cleans, which is more than I can say for the other idiots I'd managed to date throughout the years.  Either they expected me to be their little June Cleaver (ha…weren't they disappointed…they should have known that no self-respecting June Cleaver would have the mouth of a sailor), or they were just as content as I was to look the other way when mold started growing under the shampoo bottles.  Simon vacuums every few days, which I appreciate, as I still don't know how to use the Dyson.  I am a failure as a housewife, but I think he probably knew that going into it and decided to be okay with it.

I'm still irritated that I spent 2 hours in the bathroom and I myself am dirtier than when I began.  Gross.  I'm trying really hard not to think about the time that I temporarily lost my balance and my face fell against the side of the toilet.  And now that the shower is clean, I don't want to use it because that means I'll have to clean it again.  But I do need to get this Soft Scrub off the bottoms of my feet, my arms, out of my hair, etc before it burns my skin away.  Nothing like chemical burns as proof of a morning spent scrubbing the bathroom.