Housecleaning Olympics

The fanfare plays, the flag of my nation unfurls and the event begins!

The fanfare is apparently "Agony of the Common Housewife".

The flag of my nation is a roll of paper towels.

The event is the marathon of toilet bowl cleansing.

The challenge in this field of endeavor will be getting the toilet back to the pristine condition it once bore when it was newly installed. Hope springs eternal.

The competition in this primitive arena is nothing less than the accumulated layers of filth, grime, sludge and a plethora of unmentionable, unbreathable, untouchable gunk that permeates the toileting area.

The starting gun is raised. Muscles are poised. Gloves are snapped into place and fingers flexed. Mask is firmly in place. WHY, YES, I AM WEARING A HOSPITAL SURGICAL MASK!!!

I'm going into battle for the GOLD, people!! I dare not show up unprepared for this Herculean task before me!

Reaching into my well prepared arsenal of products, I spin a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles like a gunslinger across my hand. NO kidding. I really can pull that maneuver. As the back up to the advertised might of the bubbles, I also have a whacking great can of Comet at the ready!

Toilet bowl brush raised and BANG!

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!

Or, if it looks too bad, let the FLAMES begin. I'm not above arson as ALL of my siblings and a few close friends can testify to in court, if need be.

At this point, I feel I must warn you that the graphic nature of the scene prevents me from sharing photographic evidence of the carnage before me. And no amount of technology has produced reliable "smell-o-vision" that can share my masked horror.

The foamy spray coats everything in a deceptively white flocking that belies the danger lurking beneath. Suffice it to say that when the deflating bubbles turned a decidedly darker shade, I knew that it was time to start the scrubbing process with my own might as my little soldiers of chemical warfare were succumbing in the heat of battle.

Elbow grease time people, I'm down in the floor contorted with my face uncomfortably near the throne to which I am NOT currently bowing in abdominal agony. I am possessed with a zeal and fervor upon me to see the original whited porcelain surface once again.

I scrub.

I scrub again.

I get out a toothbrush and power scrub. Then I put on a dusting of Comet that were it to fall over Athens would cancel school for a week. My handy spray bottle of water tosses a fine mist over the Comet and I begin the second half of the marathon.

Any long distance runner will tell you there is a marked difference between your first half of the race and your second half before your final kick to the finish. Pacing yourself is all important in the battle against the enemy! Being well acquainted with a runner, I know that endurance becomes essential and when your first wave of strength begins to flag, you must call upon that deep down well of energy that you have trained to have for just such a time as this!

Arms quivering like Jell-O in a San Fransisco earthquake, legs straining to keep me tucked into proper position for optimal contact WITHOUT kissing the throne (literally, I'm afraid!), and my back has long since spasmed and begun to freeze into a position that I am certain I never studied once in Anatomy and Physiology, I begin to let my mind wander which is pretty dangerous since it just might not come back!

Who are these maniacal demons that design the toilets with all of their undulating curves, cracks, crevices and crannies? Why do they shove them into these tiny alcoves and closets? And upon further reflection, is there a special place in Hell for them who think a galley style bathroom can just deal with a toilet crammed into an afterthought corner with the toilet paper holder right where your left knee can smack it and create numbness and tingling? Finally, how on earth have we allowed the construction of bathrooms that are not specifically designed to come equipped with a hot water power hose so you could clean it all from 10 feet away?

GRRRR!!!!

Like a marathoner, I know there is victory out there ahead of me. I can sense it. I won't say I can SMELL it, because right now, what I am smelling doesn't smell like any finish line I'd care to cross. Frankly, most races would end about a good  hundred yards from the tape if this malodorous scent was the "reward".

I reach in for the final wipe down and scrub, then like the champion I am, I rip open the plastic cover of the little disc that will tell the world that this toilet has been officially conquered and sanitized for your protection.

THE WATER TURNS BLUE!!! VICTORY! VICTORY! VICTORY!

I have done it!

The toilet and surrounding area is now clean! It sparkles! It is now odor free!

Panting and sweating like the finisher at Aqueduct, I realize that I have tears in my eyes!

DANG! DANG! Dang it! I forgot I still had cleanser on my gloves and stupidly tried to wipe the sweat from around my eyes and instead got the cleanser (and who knows what else!!) INTO my eye instead.

Can you die from getting bathroom germs in your eye?

Should I Google it? Apply for a government grant to study the subject? Take a trip to Jamaica to ponder it in a junket of some type. And does this petty accident count against my perfect 10 in scoring? 

I sure hope not.

I DESERVE to win!! I truly feel like I deserve to feel the Olympic ribbon being placed around my neck with my gold medal bearing the image of a scrub brush. 

The crowd at Spyros Louis in Athens, Greece is on their feet demanding that I be granted the crown of laurel leaves! The cheers are deafening! The shouts of my name are humbling!

SOMEBODY!! OPEN A WINDOW AND AIR OUT THE FUMES!!!

WOW! Now I know why that little disclaimer is on the packaging about not mixing bathroom cleansers because of the reaction of the chemicals. Reckon I must have blacked out there for a minute... WHEW!! It's all good! I can breathe again and I think my little mask melted.

Oxygen now fills my lungs and the crisis is averted (for the time being).

Rest assured, my job is now done.

Whomever sits on the throne next will at least have a clean place - if not an honored place - to sit.