The Perfect Song Blog

In the last post I mentioned I volunteered to clean the upstairs bathroom on a weekly basis and Leigh gave me a training session. When she left, I looked around and decided to start with the tub. I have rinsed tubs before. I have also watched it get so grungy that I barely wanted to step in.

Now I was on my knees, scrubbing it inch-by-inch. It was an eye-opener. Here was a mere one-week collection of all types of things I’d washed off my body. There was a lot of hair. But there was also just –I don’t know—scum.

Humans are walking dirt balls and there’s nothing to be done about it except to wash all the collected dead stuff off your body, then get rid of it with Bartender’s Friend.

I moved on to the toilet. Using the Lysol wipes, I was again closer to a dirty toilet than I’ve ever been. It was not a pretty sight. What made it worse was the knowledge that these were my stains. For the most part, these were marks only a male can make.

But as I scrubbed and wiped something miraculous happened. The toilet gradually turned gleaming white before my eyes! It was transforming into something beautiful. In fact, it was so beautiful I wiped it down again just to see if I could heighten the gleam.

I scrubbed the inside of the bowl until it, too, gleamed. I flushed and watched the crystal clear water swirl around the blinding white sides of the porcelain bowl. If toilets had feelings, this one would be beaming with pride.

Inspired, I moved on to the sink, shook out some Bon Ami and began scrubbing. Toothpaste and spit stains were rubbed off. Beard hairs and flecks of pipe tobacco were swept away. I cleaned the mirror and washed the walls.

Then I stood back and looked around. Listen, when you make your living as an administrator and writer you don’t always see the results of your work. Today I stood there and basked in the results of my labors—a spotlessly clean bathroom!

I walked out so I could walk back in and appreciate it with a fresh eye.

The pride in ownership took a toll however. Later, I had to use the toilet. I looked down at its graceful curves flawlessly white. I lifted the seat with a loving appreciation I had never felt for a toilet seat. I unzipped and took aim and . . .had second thoughts.

I didn’t know if I could go through with this.

I was suffering PTCT –Post Toilet Cleaning Trauma.

With great reluctance I finally let the water flow. I shook ever so gently but even with the gentlest shake, men are condemned send drops flying where they shouldn’t. I zipped, grabbed a tissue and wiped the rim.

This toilet, I determined, would remain stain-free.

The shower was a different matter. When I shower at night the last thing I’m going to do is rinse it out. I resigned myself to having to face my collected detritus every Saturday armed with Bartender’s Friend.

But I do find myself nightly inspecting the sink for stray hairs and stains.

Yes, I have ownership now and take my duties seriously. But I’m also a little embarrassed to realize that women have known for decades what I finally appreciated: beneath the clothes we are unclean creatures.

I volunteered to clean the upstairs bathroom every week. Sounds small, I know, but it was a big jump for me.

I wanted to do something to help with the cleaning and knew from experience that washing, drying and folding clothes is not for me.

So, Saturday we had a training session, an eye-opening training session. I figured cleaning a bathroom meant washing the sink, wiping down the toilet and picking up things.

“First you have to take all the stuff off the sink,” Leigh said, moving the hair brush, electric toothbrush, tooth whitening solution, soap, deodorant and paper cup. She held up a bottle of industrial strength liquid that looked like something McGyver would use to melt concrete. “Then you squirt on the areas around the faucet that get gunked up. “ She squirted it.

“Don’t get it on your hands.”

I was becoming frightened.

What other flesh-melting weapons did she have hiding in her cleaning arsenal?

“Let it soak while you go to the tub,” she continued. “Scrub it by hand with this sponge using Bartender’s Friend. Get all the areas on the sides. Don’t forget the faucet. ”

I thought Bartender’s Friend was someone who bought me a drink.

This was looking a bit complicated. I was beginning to think I needed a degree in chemistry, protective face gear and heavy rubber gloves to complete the mission.

“Next you do the toilet. “ She dumped some ammonia into the bowl. “Then use Lysol Wipes to clean the rim, the seat, behind the seat and the sides.” She hauled out the toilet bowl brush. “Scrub the inside of the bowl until it’s clean.”

She went on. Haul out the throw rugs and shake them outside. Pour ammonia on the bath mat to get rid of the scum. Sweep the floor. Clean the walls where the dog lies and rubs dirt into them. Wash the mirror.

She handed me the cleaning materials. “Thanks . Good luck.”

And she left.

I was on my own.

In the next post I’ll let you know how I made out.

We went to Outback for Leigh’s birthday last week. Nathan wanted an appetizer. Leigh said okay and they proceeded to discuss what they wanted.

The waiter had come over three times while they were trying to decide. He stood patiently waiting as they argued in the most polite passive-aggressive manner I’ve ever heard.

“We can get the bloomin’ onion,” Leigh said.

“But you like the spinach dip,” Nathan answered.

“But I know you like the bloomin’ onion.”

“You always get the spinach dip.”

“Well, it’s new on the menu and we don’t know if it’s good.”

Finally Nathan shrugged. “You decide. It’s your birthday.”

They went with the bloomin’ onion. The waiter smiled, noted it and left.

Thirty minutes later a line of exuberant young waiters and waitresses with America’s Loudest Voices marched out and sang happy birthday to a young woman at a table beside us. It was the loudest birthday song I’ve ever heard.

Leigh, by the way, hates this feature of several restaurant chains.

Fifteen minutes later the band of servers returned and sang happy birthday to someone at another nearby table. This time I put a hand over my ear closest to them and held onto my coffee to keep it from vibrating off the table.

We finished our meal. I was just picking up my napkin when the happy band appeared again. “How could so many people be celebrating birthdays?” I wondered.

They stopped at our table and sang at the top of their voices holding a bowl of ice cream with a burning candle. As they sang, I studied Leigh’s expression which was a curious mixture of shock, rage, and thoughts of revenge.

They were directed at me. Her expression put a damper on the group’s enthusiasm. A waitress handed Leigh the ice cream and they hastily beat a retreat.

“Why did you do that?” Leigh said to me. It wasn’t a question. It was a demand that needed either a really truthful or a really creative answer. “You know I hate that!”

“It wasn’t me. I know you hate that.” In this case I thought simple was best.

“You did it when you called ahead.”

“I didn’t. I know you hate that.” Stay on message.

It worked. She turned to Nathan. “You did it you little –“

“No! I swear! I didn’t.” When Nathan wants to get a point across he always says “I swear.”

“You must have! How did they know? Somebody had to tell them!”

We puzzled over this until the waiter returned with the check. “I have a question,” I said. “How did you know it was her birthday?”

He smiled. “Oh, when they were talking about the appetizer and he” –he pointed to Nathan—“said, ‘you decide. It’s your birthday.”

He thought a minute. “God, I was hoping as we came out that it really was your birthday.”

I gave the kid a really big tip.