Now that I'm retired, I clean a little every day rather than in a marathon session on Friday evening or Saturday morning. Last Sunday, I decided to touch up the upstairs bathroom before my shower.
A minute or so into my session, I grabbed the can of cleanser and the bottom immediately popped out. Most of a large ("20% more, free") can landed in a little green mountain between the toilet and the vanity. The rest sprayed on toilet, in the sink, on my nightie and in my hair. The air was full of a light green dust and I soon smelled chlorine as I inhaled some of the residue.
There was so much to clean up that I immediately picked up a couple of handfuls and dumped them in the toilet, sink and bathtub. I swept most of the rest of it up into a large paper bag, and was working on the stubborn little deposits in various cracks when Bob arrived to survey the damage.
By this time I was whimpering, but my tears turned to sobs when he very sensibly got out the vacuum cleaner and easily removed any evidence of cleanser. Why hadn't I thought of that? I looked in the mirror and cried some more at the disheveled, crazy looking woman with tears running down her dusty face. Then I finished the cleaning job I'd begun forty-five minutes before, rinsed the cleaner off my feet and took a shower.
Bob's attempts at humor were rejected and we went on, more or less happily, with our day. This morning I did laugh a little when I opened a brand new can of cleanser, with a very solid bottom.
