On the eve of the Academy Awards when I should arguably be attending some big party or something, or at least still trying to decide between all the Dior numbers on the cover of Vanity Fair to wear tomorrow night on the red carpet while admiring my Harry Winston jewels (yes I pick out a gown every year - and yes, I believe it will look better on me than some tart like Amy Adams or Juno), but instead I found myself scrubbing the boys' bathroom floor. On my hands and knees. Seriously.
I've found that part of being unemployed is that you have to clean the house - otherwise, you sit in filth that you have to look at - like the dust on the TV screen and every other bloody surface in our sun-drenched house. I've had a cleaning lady for the past five years so I don't even know what I'm doing. For example, I'm sure that the type of cleaning I was doing would have been more efficient with a mop. But I guess I really want to appreciate NOT having to do that again someday so I crawl and see every speck of germ and disgust up close and personal. And two conclusions: 1. boys can get urine everywhere (aren't toilet openings large enough to hit - come on, pay attention children!) and 2. 409 is completely toxic - my throat is scratchy for hours later after breathing in the fumes. I just got the new issue of domino (thanks Lori) and it had a whole page about eco-friendly cleaners. I'm going to have to invest - OR get a job and a cleaning lady and a glass slipper and a chariot (and hurry up, I only have 12 hours).
