But that does fairly adequately describe the general sense of chaos and disorganization at my house. Truly, it's no wonder that that I live alone.
But lo, the many years I was a married person, I squandered a lot of perfectly good ill feelings toward each of my respective beloveds for making such a mess of the house--most especially the bathroom. I won't go into detail as regards men and their lavatory habits; if you are or have ever been married, you already know that there's nothing I can say to make you laugh about it.
But I will tell you that my second husband grew up just about as far out in the country as you can live and still have a zip code. And while you can take Bill out of the hills, you can't--well, you know. Suffice it to say that he would have happily peed off the porch six times a day, given the opportunity. I see now that I should have encouraged him to do so.
You've got to be a special kind of person to willingly clean up after someone else in the bathroom. And I wanted to be that person, I really, really did. But after a few years, every Saturday morning as I again cleaned (somebody else's) whiskers out of the sink, I found myself wondering how many Diet Cokes I would have to give up each day to be able to afford to have someone else clean up in there. And as naturally happens when a woman starts thinking about cutting back on her carbonated caffeine consumption, I began wondering how many Diet Cokes it would cost me to have him killed.
"Why, if I lived alone," I thought, "my house would be virtually spotless."
Which is how I happened to be cleaning my bathroom on Sunday morning.
Damn you, Karma. Again.