How to ruin your household.
Everything I touch breaks. This is not going to be a whine about relationships or boo-hoo-hoo I`m so unhappy. This is about cleaning house.
I cannot clean very well, maybe because I lack experience. I hardly ever clean house. The first time I cleaned a tub was last year at age 20. Yesterday I tried repeating that. Oh freaking boy.
I started out quite cheerfully by mopping my kitchen floor. It had almost evolved enough to ask me to do it, hence, after having vacuumed, I took a nice bucket of water, added some all purpose cleaner, cleared the floor, and started mopping. The floor was not impressed. The telescope-mop was constantly trying to get out of working by folding itself up, so that I had to pull it back out, and with my wrinkly soapy hands, I had problems twisting it so that it would lock. Eventually, the floor reached a level of cleanliness enough for me to dare walk on barefoot. This was after I had to use my fingernails to get rid of something I hope was red paprika.
Then I looked out the window of my kitchen. I noticed I only saw vague shapes. Time to wash the windows. I got my ladder out, filled the bucket with fresh water and added cleaning alcohol. A little too much perhaps? Just fill the bucket a wee bit more, and start cleaning. Hurrah, I happened to have all supplies to actually get up that ladder and do it.
Eventually, I could see through the glass. Then I folded the ladder. One moment there was nothing. The next, there was pain. Loads of it. I ran to the bathroom to hold my finger in the cold water. It had been caught in the ladder when I folded it! Dang, dang, dang! Now the ring finger of my left hand has these purple dots, and the nail is a bit purple as well.
Later that night, just before going to bed, I figured it might be a good idea to finally clean the bathtub again. It had some grime in the corners and looked a bit dirty, so I took out the bleach and sprayed some it. Now, the bottle of bleach had a cap sitting on it to make a strong, fine spray, so I could spout far into the tub. Then, I wanted to do my wash basin. Bad idea.
I aimed the bleach at the basin and happily spouted the bleach into it. Until the cap came of and a tsunami of bleach made its way through my basin, in te direction of the towels. SHIT! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! Any of you who`s ever had a coupe soleil knows what bleach does to pigment. It`s not called bleach for nothing. I thought nothing was wrong, the towels weren`t wet, and I could believe my luck. Until later I picked the towels up, and saw what had happened: none of my old towels had been affected. Just my only four good ones, the only ones I dare offer guests because they`re the only ones not feeling like sandpaper! Double shit!
So my finger hurts, my towels are ruined, and there are still some pink spots on my kitchen floor I`d rather not guess about. My room looks like a scrapheap, with documents, books and other articles strewn around. My life is awful. I cannot clean. I need a boyfriend. Preferably a neat-freak who does know his way around a kitchen floor, a fold-up ladder, and a bottle of bleach.
I cannot clean very well, maybe because I lack experience. I hardly ever clean house. The first time I cleaned a tub was last year at age 20. Yesterday I tried repeating that. Oh freaking boy.
I started out quite cheerfully by mopping my kitchen floor. It had almost evolved enough to ask me to do it, hence, after having vacuumed, I took a nice bucket of water, added some all purpose cleaner, cleared the floor, and started mopping. The floor was not impressed. The telescope-mop was constantly trying to get out of working by folding itself up, so that I had to pull it back out, and with my wrinkly soapy hands, I had problems twisting it so that it would lock. Eventually, the floor reached a level of cleanliness enough for me to dare walk on barefoot. This was after I had to use my fingernails to get rid of something I hope was red paprika.
Then I looked out the window of my kitchen. I noticed I only saw vague shapes. Time to wash the windows. I got my ladder out, filled the bucket with fresh water and added cleaning alcohol. A little too much perhaps? Just fill the bucket a wee bit more, and start cleaning. Hurrah, I happened to have all supplies to actually get up that ladder and do it.
Eventually, I could see through the glass. Then I folded the ladder. One moment there was nothing. The next, there was pain. Loads of it. I ran to the bathroom to hold my finger in the cold water. It had been caught in the ladder when I folded it! Dang, dang, dang! Now the ring finger of my left hand has these purple dots, and the nail is a bit purple as well.
Later that night, just before going to bed, I figured it might be a good idea to finally clean the bathtub again. It had some grime in the corners and looked a bit dirty, so I took out the bleach and sprayed some it. Now, the bottle of bleach had a cap sitting on it to make a strong, fine spray, so I could spout far into the tub. Then, I wanted to do my wash basin. Bad idea.
I aimed the bleach at the basin and happily spouted the bleach into it. Until the cap came of and a tsunami of bleach made its way through my basin, in te direction of the towels. SHIT! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! Any of you who`s ever had a coupe soleil knows what bleach does to pigment. It`s not called bleach for nothing. I thought nothing was wrong, the towels weren`t wet, and I could believe my luck. Until later I picked the towels up, and saw what had happened: none of my old towels had been affected. Just my only four good ones, the only ones I dare offer guests because they`re the only ones not feeling like sandpaper! Double shit!
So my finger hurts, my towels are ruined, and there are still some pink spots on my kitchen floor I`d rather not guess about. My room looks like a scrapheap, with documents, books and other articles strewn around. My life is awful. I cannot clean. I need a boyfriend. Preferably a neat-freak who does know his way around a kitchen floor, a fold-up ladder, and a bottle of bleach.