Psycho Midnight Cleaning Lady

Currently, I find myself in what I've been calling the Super Sonic Centrifugal Life Transition Vortex. I've been in it since returning from Paris. Sometimes, I handle the spinning chaos with grace and aplomb (whatever that is), but other times, like two nights ago, I turn into a shrieking neurotic hellcat on wheels.

I'm all blender-drinked on the insides trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. I'm in this play that scares me, playing a lesbian in a jean skirt. And meanwhile, I've done my usual 'overprogram the daytimer to the freaking max' thing and have approximately nine hundred freelance projects all of which are not ending when they were supposed to end.

So, maybe you can see how I took it just slightly personally when my boyfriend implied that maybe we need to clean up around our Hurricane Hannah pig sty of a home, beginning with our bathroom. I don't know how you masters of graceful social interaction would have handled this, but here's how I did:

First, I got really quiet and employed the patented One Word Answer technique. Then I avoided eye contact and changed the subject. Then, as I climbed the stairs to bed, I made sure my 'Good night' was barely audible, just to make sure Boyfriend knew that he was a big jerk and I don't love him anymore.

I brushed my teeth using the gingivitis-fighting Stab Myself in the Face Because I'm so Mad method. I noticed Boyfriend had cleared away most of the stuff on the bathroom counter, including my stuff. Which, of course, means he doesn't love me and and doesn't want me in his life or in his house.

I slammed the light off, practically putting a hole in the drywall. I harumphed into bed and proceeded to relax into Frustrated Sobbing meditation. As my ear canals filled with tears and I became aware that I was probably going to give myself a headache and seriously puffy eyes for my opening night, I thought about all the bad things Boyfriend has ever done. I decided that I've never loved him and I never will and I should probably just break up with him right now. It would be better for everyone.

Right after I take the garbage out. At midnight.

Then, riding the red PMS-soaked crest of my rage, I proceeded to clean the bathroom. My peaceful bathroom-cleaning mantra was something like this: You want a clean effing house you effing sonofabeep, I'll effing show you a clean effing house.

As I lathered up the counter, I listed off all the deadlines and responsibilities I have that are way more important than cleaning a bathroom. I made a mental spreadsheet of how many times I've gone to the grocery store vs. how many times he's gone to the grocery store...you never know when you might need this kind of statistical analysis. I polished the counter, sinks and mirror to a blinding shine.

And then I moved on to the shower.

Our shower is pretty large. It's got a seat in it. Its made of glass. It's basically a big glass shower box. You have to get fully IN the shower in order to clean it. Which means getting cleaner goo all over your feet and probably all over your clothes. So, really, it's best to clean the shower...naked.

Which is what I did. I stripped down to my Birthday Suit, elegantly accessorized by my glasses and puffy red crying face, and got in the shower. I sprayed and scoured. I got on my hands and knees with the brush-thing and scrubbed the grubby shower floor. The brush is too big for the corners and it made a loud clunking sound as I scrubbed away.

I imagine it was the clunking that alerted Boyfriend. Who walked into the bathroom to find his red-faced neurotic girlfriend buck naked, glasses sliding down her nose, scrubbing the shower at one a.m.

He tried not to laugh when he asked what I was doing. And by that time, the meditative effects of housecleaning actually had calmed me down, so I didn't spray bleach cleaner into his eyes and drown him in the sink.

He explained that he didn't mean to imply that I should clean the house. But that we should clean the house...after my show...together. I stared at him. Scummy cleaner juice dripped down my leg.

He retrieved an old toothbrush from under his sink and said, "Here, this brush is good for the corners." He squatted down and brushed at the corners. I took the toothbrush from him and told him that this was my psycho midnight cleaning binge and he was really stealing my thunder. He laughed.

And then he whistled at my nakedness. And got me a towel after I rinsed myself off. And gave me one of those cute towel-wrap rub-a-dub hugs.

Bastard. We're through.