Penance.

I should start by pointing out that yes, I do have a certain degree of OCD, but I am my own walking cognitive behavior therapist and can control it, within reason and with the use of the kick ass colorist gloves I found under the sink. I don't say this often because I have been told I either cannot possibly control it all by myself, or that I just don't have it. I no longer get into quibbles about that, I don't care. It's like when the neighbors see me standing up and think I'm just not cutting limbs off my trees because they haven't pointed out those limbs to me enough. Same thing. I know me better than anyone else, and I don’t expect anyone else to get every little thing about me (like how much I love those gloves I found under the sink)—I wouldn’t want them to, just like I also don’t want people to take the fact that I don’t have an ice pick sticking out of my head as evidence that I’m perfectly fine when I say I have a migraine.

That said, I cleaned the bathroom today.

The bathroom wasn't horrible or anything, no, but the rug had died years ago and was decomposing all over the place. We have a ceramic tile floor in the bathroom, but potential frostbite and the drawback of having an echo chamber led us to put down the nice plush gray bathroom rug, which at the time of its death had a sort of reddish polka dot pattern and had lost its non-skid backing. The backing wasn't actually lost as much as stuck to the tile. So I scraped the floor after I'd folded up the rug and stuffed it all into a bag just like the last victim. Having scraped and swept the floor, I then got it into my head to wash the floor. Only, I don't use a mop. I use a sponge and bucket of water and whatever chemicals I can find (hence the greatness of the gloves). Electrasol dishwasher gel is fabulous for the kitchen floor, btw. It gets that crunk off dishes, and it gets that crunk off the floor under the fridge.

I always liked cleaning. Hell, I used to have to be physically removed from the stove on holidays because I loved cleaning so much. I have the chemical asthma and dermatitis to show for it. The side effects of my misspent youth can be a drawback, especially when my hands crack and start bleeding all over the nice clean curtains.

Those who have been inside my house may think I'm spouting lies because maybe it doesn't look that great. I'm all heaving acid and breaking out and keeling over and for what? There's still a wisp of a cobweb in the left corner of the hallway that I either missed or left because I believe spiders have squatter’s rights. I will tell you why that is. Part of the reason I even brought up the OCD in the beginning is because as a child, I was really obsessive about cleaning, but the dirt, it would come back. Again and again. I would vacuum the hallway, and some yutz would track pine needles into the house and not even notice or care what he’d done. It was pointless, and eventually I gave up because no one cared. From then on, I vowed I would clean, but not at the expense of my skin and lungs. It was superficial and half-assed and as I like to call it, “The illusion of clean.” There was no point scrubbing the bathroom when every morning after the first person to use it was done there was toothpaste vapor all over the mirror, and drips, and stains, and hair that I could not identify as coming off of any part of me.

The Sparkling Wave Pine-Sol I used on the floor reminded me of his cheap aftershave.

Why was there a tiny bottle of fruity Pine-Sol under the sink anyway? We didn't buy it. Was it planted there, knowing I would be the only fool to try using it to remove the stains from the tile behind the toilet? That has to be it.

I have reclaimed the bathroom once more. I even threw the shower curtain into the washing machine. I can come on here and brag about it for roughly three more minutes, and then I expect the tiles to start gathering dust again. I'm not the only one who cleans the bathroom, mind you, but this time around, I'm the one who did, so you get to relive it with me in a random crazy kind of way. Nan has thrown her knee out of whack and my mother...well, read back a few posts. To quote Warren Zevon, it ain’t that pretty at all.

November 15 is the day all the women bloggers who are childfree come out and say, well, whatever they want, but I'm using this post to give you a very good idea why I am, as they say, childfree. I have my cats, of course, and they're very clean and they don't track crap into the house or draw on the walls or exhale while they're flossing their teeth, plus they like my taste in music and movies and games, and I can dress them for under $5. If I need to show why I prefer cats to humans any further, my Fluffy One came in when the floor was dried and I was finishing with the curtain. He looked around, sniffed the air, stood up to the toilet and the sink, inspected every corner, and then looked at me and said, "Brrm?" There isn't a human I know who ever said anything so nice to me.

Penance.