Brian will sometimes ask “what did you do today” when he arrives home from work. I’m often at a loss for words, because I’m not really sure WHAT I did during the day. In order to answer that question, I paid close attention this morning to see how my day begins. It is somewhat disturbing, but in the interest of full discloser and self-awareness I have decided to share these deep secrets with you, my friends. Because I’m such a complicated person, I’m going to have to do these confessions a room at a time, starting with the most important place in the house: the bathroom.
It starts when I quickly go potty before getting into the shower (I still use the term “potty…so sue me). Yes, I know you are thinking to yourself “Good God, Marlys, TMI”! Seriously, though, this has been driving me crazy because I need to know if I’m the only one who thinks like this when going through a morning ritual. Hopefully some of you will feel blessedly reassured that you aren’t alone. Either that, or I’ll feel even weirder than I already do.
Getting back to the potty, if I have a little time and am not in a crazy rush, I will sometimes find myself looking at the baseboards. Not a good idea, as this results in panic. Gross, there is hair building up and some water stains. This will then result in me pulling off a wad of toilet paper and leaning down as far as I can in order to swipe up the hair. But then, sadly, I realize I need to do this along the ENTIRE baseboard. As my butt leaves the seat I accept the fact that my shower will have to wait a few minutes. One time I leaned so far forward that I fell. Off the pot. What a dumbass.
I’m typically naked, since I’m preparing to enter the shower. As the water runs, and I’m cleaning up the baseboards, I then notice the toilet. Sometimes I notice an empty bottle of shampoo on the floor behind the toilet. How in the HELL did that get there? Sometimes there are a few stains in the toilet that weren’t there the last time I went through this ritual, which causes me to stop, mid “baseboard sweep”, in order to get the toilet cleaner from under the cabinet. The problem with this, because I’m naked, means I catch a glance of myself in the mirror.
Most of the time this results in a brief scream of horror. Often, I will stop to critique this 44 year old body and find myself thinking a myriad of things. Damn, Marlys, you need to shave those arms. Then I think to myself how much easier it would’ve been to live three or four decades ago when we weren’t expected to shave. What a pain in the ass, seriously. We had women who were so strong they fought for our right to vote…only to have their ancestors enslave us to the razor. Weak, sisters, really weak.
Sometimes I think I look pretty darn good compared to the women of the 1950’s, who by their forties would be sporting short gray hair and dowdy house dresses. Of course, this is only if I haven’t recently seen Kelly Ripa in one of her teeny little tight dresses sitting all upright and stiff while sexily sucking down her coffee on her morning show. On THOSE occasions, it occurs to me I'd be considered morbidly obese in the world of Hollywood and should never leave the house unless I want to scare the public. Compared to her I’m Jabba the Hutt; of course, compared to her we are ALL Jabba the Hut. Jabba rules!
Turning from the mirror in shame, I might find that I forgot what I was doing at the counter in the first place so I’ll load up my toothbrush and hop in the shower. This is only after grabbing the nearest towel, hung to dry from last night’s shower rush. No, we DON’T wash our towels after every use. Ain’t nobody got time for dat. No, I don’t care if Marah used the towel last. She would’ve been clean, after all, and I’d just glad she hung it up instead of tossing it in a wet mess onto the floor of her room (walking you through a visit to her room would require an entire blog unto itself….it’s like entering the home of Leatherface, sans the dead bodies…at least as far as I know).
Back to the toothbrush. Yes, I brush my teeth in the shower. No, I’m not going to apologize. Some of you might think it’s gross but I like to think of it as extended tooth time. I find that I sometimes brush for ten minutes or more while pondering why I hate Sam Brownback and Kelly Ripa…or the gross hard water buildup on the tile.
This is why my showers can take so long. As I’m brushing my teeth, I look at the tile. Every chink in the grout leaves me thinking “damn, we need to replace this tile.” Then I realize that costs money. As I think about the tile, I notice how grungy the doors are getting. Sigh, this means a quick trip out of the shower to the counter cabinet in order to grab the foaming bubbles.
Gross. I noticed my naked self in the mirror again. Here we go…could you seriously be ANY older girl??? Sometimes I’ll turn to the side and suck in just so that I feel a little skinnier. But then I have to grab my boobs and lift them up. High. Wait, higher. Damn, I need a boob job. Then I notice the toothbrush in my mouth and realize I’m in the middle of a shower and the hot water is going to run out if I don’t hurry up. As I get back into the shower and pull the door shut I notice the water buildup. Crap. I need the foaming bubbles.
Sometimes, before I can get back out in order to retrieve the foaming bubbles, I’ll notice the bottles of shampoo on the floor and panic. My special shampoo needs to be placed up high on the edge of the doors so that Brody doesn’t use it. I don’t get my nails done, I don’t collect purses, & I’ve never had a bikini wax...but I do try to at least take care of my hair. And I don’t want to share my shampoo! Then I’ll notice half of the cheap bottles are empty.
Damn, family, can’t ANYONE remove an empty bottle from the shower and put it in the trash??? Rather than risk another meeting with the mirror, I just toss the bottles over the door and hope they don’t land behind the toilet. That would mean I’d have to clean the tile.
Oh, so THAT’S why that empty shampoo bottle was behind the toilet! See how this works? Full circle, ladies.
This type of scenario happens everywhere I go in my house. Sometimes it can take me an hour just to walk down the stairs. Or up the stairs. Or across the room.
The next time Brian asks me what I did today I’m going to show him this. It might result in a visit to the psychologist, but at least there will be documentation of my mental illness.
Next week: Confessions of a Housewife: What Really Happens in my Refrigerator. Gross.