Our Own Private Filling Station

We have a half bath in our basement. To say it was disgusting is an understatement. I hardly would ever use it and I sure as hell would never sit on the toilet. I always thought of it as our own private gas station bathroom, it was that gross.

Since it’s in Rick’s man area and he’s the one who uses it regularly, it was his responsibility to clean it. That never happened.

Here, he would argue that he did clean it. And in the over two and half years we’ve lived in this house, he did clean it. Once. Whore’s bath. Didn’t count, in my humble opinion.

So I nagged and nagged and nagged and nagged. Still no real cleaning. Then I moved onto threats, “If I have to clean this bathroom, I’m going to go buy myself something. Expensive.”

Still nothing.

When my friends told me they were coming over a couple of weeks ago to help me transform my office into the nursery, I decided the time had come for me to clean it. Really. All the way.

I figured since we’d be moving stuff into the basement, chances were good someone might actually want to use it. The Friday night before they were coming over, I spent a couple of hours on it.

Scrubbing the toilet. Cleaning the cobwebs. Mopping and re-mopping the floor. Cleaning the sink. I spent so much time in that bathroom, I totally neglected the main bathroom upstairs, near the room we were working on. Oops.

Suffice it to say, I now use our gas station bathroom on a regular basis. I’m not afraid to go in there anymore. I’m no longer disgusted by it. I actually enjoy using those particular facilities. And I even feel good about my accomplishment and plan to keep it clean, no matter what Rick does.

But don’t worry. I still plan on hitting Tiffany’s.