I am seriously considering hiring a professional cleaning service a la Merry Maids or the Maid Brigade to come to our apartment and clean our bathroom. As in, I've actually contacted one of the companies to have them give me an estimate. As in, "How much would I have to pay you to come into my home and completely unleash your total and utter disinfectant-y madness on my bathroom? Because dearlordI'llpayitIdon'tcarewhatthecostispleasejustmakemybathroomallbetteragainIcan'ttakeitanymoreaaaaaaaaah."
Quite frankly, I've cleaned the toilet already. I've lived with it for about a week now. And I still cannot erase the vision of that hell-born, turd-ridden nightmare that greeted me when I came home from the airport after Christmas vacation. It has, quite literally, been burned into my brain. What did not help matters was the fact that I came home from work today to find that my Schmoobles had absentmindedly left the toilet seat up and I walked in to see all the little ...bits and pieces... that I was unable to clean due to the fact that I was busy lapsing into a shock-induced blackout and mentally willing myself to not vomit inside my mouth.
In related news: I was taking a shower yesterday when I realized I didn't have a fresh towel on the towel bar. So I called to Schmoobs to get me a towel, which he did, and then he said as he was walking out, "I put it on the toilet...." To which I responded by immediately popping my head from beyond the shower curtain and asking, "It's WHAT?!" and then eyeing with crazy eyes the fresh towel folded neatly on top of the toilet lid. And then I said, "Put it heeeeere..." as I tapped the safe and clean, non-turd-ridden towel bar. To which Scott rolled his eyes and sighed, "You are such a germophobe." Damn straight.
Also: we went and saw "National Treasure II" last night. Scott had been trapped in our apartment all week as I had to use his giant monster truck to drive to and from work while (un)Lucky continues to sit on the street with a flat tire (we will take care of it today), and he was the very definition of "stir crazy," so I had to indulge his desire to go out and see a really bad movie. It was, however, surprisingly enjoyable. I attribute this to the fact that we had gone and seen the first "National Treasure" when it came out and I was now fully prepared for the campy acting and non-sensical plot twists and turns that are apparently the hallmark of this franchise. Also? We still have not forgiven "The Golden Compass" for sucking balls so hard, and anything halfway decent in comparison now qualifies as a good movie. I do have to say, however, that, unlike so many of his male Hollywood peers, good ol' Nic Cage is not aging gracefully. I mean, isn't that the bitterly unfair truth about aging actors? That they get to become better looking with age while their female counterparts, erm, ....don't. But, whoa. You better watch out with the eyeliner and hairplugs. It's getting a little out of control.
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