“The water’s brown.”
“It’s supposed to be brown. I’ve been cleaning stuff.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just smear mud on the clean spots?”
“It’s November. There’s enough mudslinging without me joining in.”
Cleaning the bathroom is a lot like electing a President. You need to wipe away all traces of anything nasty and create a sparkling platform that will stand up to all the dirt that will come to light later on.
This weekend, as I sprawled on the bathroom floor peering into corners that don’t always (um, ever) receive the full scope of my attention, I couldn’t help but think of the upcoming elections. There’s not a presidential candidate at stake, but given the choices on the ballot I found myself wishing I could scoop back through the litter box for some better alternatives.
I’m from South Carolina, an area where throwing your hat into the ring involves more hat tricks than rings and there’s not anybody in the limelight I’d want to tip my cap to without keeping a firm hand on my wallet.
“Trouble?” The Captain of my Scrub Boat lounged in the doorway, sipping coffee and checking his watch. He likes a clean bathroom as much as anybody, but once the scrubbing bubbles crowd lunchtime, he’s done with the dirty work. Besides, it’s his job to contain the mess I make when cleaning, and this time it could take a village just to get me off the floor.
“Toss me that sponge. I can’t get rid of this mystery spot.”
“That’s no mystery. It’s barbecue sauce.”
“Do I want to know the whole story?”
“It involves chicken nuggets.”
“And the dog.”
“You don’t see any stray french fries down there, do you?”
“No, but there’s something in the litter box that I don’t plan to investigate.”
After a while I found that I’d scrubbed my way into a space up against the wall and it was either make a dramatic exit through the window or track dirty footprints back the way I’d come. Life is full of those times when neither choice sounds beneficial.
Cap appeared again in the doorway. “It's lunchtime. Need a life preserver?”
“I’ve backed myself into a corner.”
“Step on these newspapers and then grab my hand.” He laid the front page and the comics to make a pathway to the door. I never thought about it before, but they seemed to work well together and I followed the newsprint road to the door.
Free at last, I look backed to admire the morning’s work. The floor was spotless except for the tiny corner where I’d been stranded.
“Not bad for a morning’s work,” I grinned. Everything’s clean except one place that’s hidden behind the closet door, and I have somebody who can give me a hand when I’m in a tight spot.
I can’t think of a better way to celebrate Election Day.