I have a friend- I call her my ‘funny friend.’  For the sake of this blog, I will refer to this funny friend as Loretta.  (In all likelihood, the four* people who religiously follow my blog know the true identity of Loretta, but those of you who have unwittingly stumbled onto this page and into my inner-psyche will have to be satisifed with the alias.)  Oftentimes, I introduce Loretta to others as ‘my funny friend.’  She does not always like this.  Oftentimes, she acts embarassed and mutters something along the lines of ‘I wish she wouldn’t say that.  The pressure!’  Other times, she steps up to the figurative mic and launches into her best comic routine.  And believe me, she is funny- why else would I call her my ‘funny friend?’       

When I am fairly certain she doesn’t want to be introduced as my ‘funny friend,’ I instead refer to her as my ‘friend of convenience’- which she actually doesn’t seem to mind at all.  In truth, it is quite possibly she who originally came up with that designation.  (Because, after all, I am nothing if not convenient- so convenient, in fact, that I live a mere block away from her.)  Still, Loretta has earned the convenience crown through two years of walks around Rice University (when I’ve decided my clothes no longer fit), Bennigan’s** runs (perhaps having something to do with aforementioned clothes issues); email rant proofreading (acting as the filter of reason for some of my more ill-advised diatribes); and serving as an overall mood elevator. 

Just last night, I IMed her for inspiration- since the more generally content I am, the less inspired I am to blog on a regular basis.  Indeed, my motivation to blog seems indirectly proportional to my peace of mind. In these instances, I depend upon the quirky behavior/anecdotes of my friends, coworkers, and dog for good blog material, as I am not as compelled to air my own personal neurosese.  However, last night, my funny, convenient friend did not have inspiration or funny stories to spare.  

So, instead, I will blog about my relationship with another funny friend this morning.  This particular funny friend is a boyfriend.  For the sake of this blog, I will refer to him as Allen, his real name- mostly because one need only scroll down to find this out for oneself.  First of all, Allen is an incredibly good sport.  From the very beginning, he put up with my teasing him about his highlights and his choosing an apartment next door to Pubfiction.  He did not turn around and run away when I broke out into the ‘squid dance’*** in the parking lot of Sea World.  He was only mildly distressed when, upon my impromptu shower rendition of ‘Part of Your World’ from The Little Mermaid, he recalled that he had seen the movie in the theatre with his high school sweetheart… when I would have been 10 years old.  He allows Fidel to sleep in the crevice between the two of us at night.  And when he asks me if I’m manic, he asks in a nice way- and even claims it’s kind of cute.  So, over the last several months, our teasing has evolved into a very familiar brand of goading.  Most recently, this goading has involved his apartment.

Allen may be a good sport and a stellar find-but he is also a bachelor at heart.  See exhibit A.

Bachelor Fridge

Exhibit A: Bachelor Fridge

His bachelor status**** is not only evidenced by the refrigerator***** pictured left, but also by his bathroom.  The sole bathroom in his apartment would make an excellent location for a Mark Romaneck NIN video.  Not quite beyond redemption, it is nonetheless a bit evocative of a dungeon- though one of those slightly cleaner, more pleasant dungeons one may find in a Teutonic castle.  Seeing that I have been spending a great deal of time over at Allen’s place and have thus contributed to the mess, I think it would be unfair to show Exhibit B (The Dungeon) or to claim that I had nothing to do with it.  So, there will be no picture, and you will just have to take my word for it. 

As one of the few women in this world unable to cook anything beyond eggs, pancakes, and other various and sundry items that come in a box and require nothing save the boiling of water, I try to prove my domesticity in other ways: I clean.  Mind you, not my own place- but I will occasionally be motivated to show my affection for others through the sweep of a broom or the twist of a scrub brush. 

In the case of Allen’s bathroom, we both moved straight from the denial stage (“No, I don’t think this bath tub is actually supposed to be white”) to the bargaining stage (“Sweetheart, if you would just buy the cleaning products,****** we would be one step closer to actually getting it clean”).  I made the deal that should he buy the Mr. Clean, I, his loving girlfriend, would do the cleaning.  (This was, like, 4 weeks ago.)

So finally, while thinking fondly of Allen yesterday morning, I broke down at CVS and bought the cleaning products myself- figuring that I might surprise him with a clean bathroom.  Only problem is that CVS is not stocked with the full array of cleaning products your average grocery store offers, so I was forced to buy something unfamiliar to me- Action Scrubber: Scrubbing Bubbles.    

Happy Little Scrubby Guy

Happy Little Scrubby Guy

This morning, after he had left for work, I examined the package carefully.  I recalled that in the commercials for this line of products, the actress always opens up the package and to her delight, happy little scrubby guys do all the work, leaving her bathroom sparkling.  Well, I wasn’t expecting any such luck. 

But to my surprise and joy, the Scrubbing Bubbles really did work.  No, the bathroom was not overtaken by happy little scrubby guys, but it took me all of five minutes to make the whole room shine!*******  And with very little effort!  I even did a little victory tap-dance in the bathroom- I haven’t been this excited about a cleaning product since Mr. Clean’s Magic Eraser!!!!

You must be sitting there wondering where the hell I am going with this, right?  Well, I wil tell you, young Padawan: I suppose the point of this long, meandering story is this:

One can always find inspiration in little things- even scrubbing bubbles.


*The number may now have fallen to three.  I claim no responsibility for the validity of the stats.

**Before Bennigan’s went bust- And only once, I promise.  Once they added Fried Twinkies to the menu, I knew it was over between us.

***The ‘squid dance’ is a nautical variation on my slightly more popular ‘monkey dance.’

****’Bachelor’ in the sense of never been married.  Wiki makes this distinction here, but ladies, make no mistake- this one’s taken.

*****They say those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones- I make no claim that my fridge looks any differently.  (However, I have at least 3 more bottles of Kikkoman than he does.)

******I did manage to get him to buy Windex a few months ago, but we still hadn’t graduated to paper towels- instead, napkins are used for clean-up purposes.

*******I may claim to Allen that it took me more than five minutes.


~ by ladamesansregrets on October 22, 2008.

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