I was griping at the boys about their bathroom resembling a 1970s truck stop restroom, odor and all. See, I don’t use it. I don’t go in it, I don’t go near it. It’s theirs and if they don’t care that it’s gross, why should I? However, it’s aroma was starting to infiltrate my sewing room,so it was time to say something. (David cleaned it, and it smells nice now, like lemons and bleach)
then i realized my bathroom wasn’t much better. You see, the bathroom Terry and i share is still in “remodeling” mode, which means I don’t see much reason to really clean it. I mean, sawdust, paint, 1967 vintage hanging lamps…yeah. So, I wasn’t cleaning it. Much. At all. Then I realized it resembled a 1970’s truck stop restroom.
So today I cleaned it. Even to the point of getting on the floor with ajax and a scrubber and SCRUBBING the floor. Now it’s clean. nice right?
So Terry came in, went upstairs and did something manly and mysterious that probably involved Febreeze, and when he came down he said “The bathroom looks nice, did you clean it?” and when I said yes he said “Did you scrub the floor?” Yes, I answered. “Like on your hands and knees scrubbed it?” yes, I answered. “Why did you do that? With your shoulder and back like it is, why did you get down and scrub the floor? has it ever occurred to you that you hurt because you do stuff like this?”
When I finished looking at him over the tops of my glasses, it occurred to me that MY HUSBAND JUST FUSSED AT ME FOR CLEANING.