The Battle to be Won

“AAAhhh,” I purred to myself in pleasure. The almost hot lavender and rose scented water cradled my worn body. A bath, a real unadulterated bath. No husband, no kids, no work. Lazily I opened my eyes and serenely studied the tiles overhead.

“Good God!” I stared at a maze of creeping black gunk clinging to the blue tiling. Panic seized me. Oh no, what would she think. Until I had spied the derelict goo invading my home via the bathroom ceiling, I had enjoyed a moment of knowing that Mom would find nothing to comment on. She was due to arrive in two hours, with her linen gloves and acerbic tongue.

Climbing quickly out of the tub, I surveyed the options. Bleach, scrubbing bubbles, sponges, and spray bottles were among the array of battle implements at hand. Then another distressing thought, it’s overhead. My hair. Bleach is no good. I’d probably end up with a skunk streak by dinner. Scrubbing bubbles, that’s a possibility. I climbed back into the grimy uniform of sweats I had just discarded before my moment of bliss had been interrupted.

I pulled open the cabinet under the sink that held the arsenal. Ah hah! I greedily grabbed at the one really bad birthday gift I had ever received. The Black & Decker Scumbuster. However, I had to admit, it was probably the most useful. Battery powered, its sleek handheld body with spinning scrub brushes would power through almost anything. Next, I nabbed the bottle of Dow Bathroom cleaner, “with the power of scrubbing bubbles”. That black scum wouldn’t stand a chance.

Wielding my tools of destruction, I approached the battlefield. I climbed in the now empty tub and stared at the ceiling. I aimed the bottle of cleaner and paused. This was really going to get all over me. I was not sufficiently protected yet.

Out in the tool shed I pawed through drawers of screwdrivers, wrenches and other things I couldn’t name if I tried. Opening every bucket, I finally found the next part of my armor. A pair of protective goggles. The box of heavy rubber gloves lay next to it. Why not? If I didn’t use them, Mom would probably make some comment about taking care of my hands better.

As I headed out the door of the shed, a glimpse of bright orange caught my eye. An orange rain slicker. I was really beginning to get into the spirit of this now. If I couldn’t scrub that black crap off the ceiling, I might be able to scare it. I donned the slicker and began to whistle the theme from “The Bridge Over the River Kwai”. With a bounce to my step, I reentered the house and neared the bathroom.

In my head I could hear the bagpipes blowing. I charged into the breach and challenged the ceiling, “En Guarde!” The spray bottle and humming Scumbuster sang as they met the unyielding surface of the ceiling.

The frenzy of the battle held me in its grip. The assault went on, minute after minute. Particularly clever black bits of grime would spin out of the Buster’s onslaught and hide in the crevices of the grout. My arms ached, my back complained, my goggles became clouded with spray and remains of the enemy.

And then, it happened. After almost a half hour, the white grout began to shine through, the black bits of grime floated down the drain and I turned off the Buster. A quick rinse with the showerhead displayed a sparkling ceiling.

Trumpets sounded. I let myself, the weary knight, return to camp. As I reclined on the couch the softer sounds of Saturday afternoon seep into my consciousness.

A short while later I heard the familiar whine of the family mini-van arriving outside. The kids piled into the house, telling me all about the day at the movies. Dad watched them while I went upstairs and made myself presentable for Mom’s arrival.

That evening after dinner, Mom stretched and made a comment on the long day of traveling.

I smiled and said, “Would you like a bath?”

“That would be lovely, dear. And the house looks so nice. Who do you have come in and help you with it?”

A triumphant pealing of bells joined those trumpets.