I’ve been spending more time in my upstairs bathroom the last week, because my powder room is still out-of-order. Having to climb the stairs every time I have to pee, which is often, has been a challenge. My doctor would say it is great exercise, to which I say pfft.

It’s really not as clean as I would like. I’ve noticed that the floor needs washingΒ and the shower tiles are not pearly white like they should be. My kid cleans up there for me now, but the perfectionist in me is tweaking out. One of my favorite things to do was to clean my bathroom, hand wash my floors, scrub the toilet, (okay, I never really enjoyed that part) and get the fuzzies that build up on the bottom of the commode.

Like most of my devious plans, my husband caught me carrying the steam mop through the living room (it weighs 3 pounds, if that) and a bottle of lemon scented bathroom cleaner (now with the power of Oxi Clean.)


I love cleaning supplies.

“What are you doing?” he said.


“Mer, don’t do it.” Look of concern.

“But its gross up there.”

“Have B do it.” Look of skepticism, thinly shielded.

“But she does a half-ass job!!!”

“You know you’ll end up hurting yourself.” Look of the cold hard truth.

He was right. We had gone to the grocery store Friday night and my legs were (are) absolutely killing me, not to mention that I think a flare-up is imminent. I have all of the signs.

My daughter told me not to worry, that she will clean the upstairs bathroom. I showed her all of the things that have me so concerned.

“You’ll have to get on your hands and knees. You’ll have to scrub. Elbow grease and all of that.”

“Ick.” Look of disgust.

“Don’t let me down, child of my loins.”

“I hate the smell of bleach and lemons.”

Yes, she’s my kid. I have the papers to prove it.