When in Doubt, Ignore Your Grout

I've talked a lot on here about my son's ADHD, but there are days I swear I know where he got it: me. I have never been formally tested or diagnosed or whatever, and I'm pretty sure I don't have the "hyperactive" component (I mean, couch-sitting is my favorite), but my brain is always trying to convince me to do twelve hundred things at the same time, and I get very easily distracted.

Which is why the other day when I was doing laundry, I started poking around in the upper cabinets where the previous homeowners left a few house-related things: product warranties and user manuals, samples of paint colors, and, hmm, what's this? My fingers closed around something toothbrushy. As I pulled it out of the cabinet I realized what it actually was: a grout brush, for cleaning between tiles.

There's a ton of tile in this house, y'all. My kitchen and the attached (very spacious) dining area. The large front entryway. And three (3!!!) bathrooms. We've lived here for a year next month, and I clean these big-ass floors every. Single. Saturday. But the grout itself has never been touched. In fact, I've never cleaned grout in my life. So when I found the toothbrushy grout-cleaning apparatus, I was curious. Like Curious George. And we all know how shit turns out for Curious George.

I really just wanted to see what the grout brush did. Like, how effective it was at cleaning. So I crouched in a corner of my kitchen and scrubbed between a few tiles.


When I stood up and looked at my handiwork, I was shocked. My gray grout was actually ... not gray. Which meant I now had a few lines of sparkling white grout that stood out like a peacock at a chicken farm.

I tried to ignore it. Seriously. But it was literally impossible - it's all I could notice, the glaring discrepancy between the nice clean grout lines and the grubby ones. And I was like DAMN IT. Because I had two choices: either I could be driven slowly insane by the differing grout colors, or I could indulge my inner neat freak (that asshole) and scrub every last line of grout until they were all the same shade of clean. So you can probably guess what I did.

It took me a SOLID WEEK to finish it all. I literally wore through the grout brush and had to buy more. I had bruises on my knees and blisters on my hands. I was a dumb-dumb and used Comet, which left a white powdery residue that I had to rinse off, adding yet another layer of work. And then, because I had put so much effort into cleaning it, I wanted to seal it. So I did that, too. LINE. BY. LINE.

If you're considering it ... don't.

Is it nice to have brighter grout? Of course. My floor looks clean, whether it really is or not. BUT. I am officially ignoring it for the rest of my life no matter how dirty it gets. And if we ever move, or build a house, I'm specifying NO SPACES BETWEEN THE TILES BECAUSE GROUT IS THE DEVIL.

When it gets grungy again, I'm just going to pretend it's supposed to be gray. Gray is in, anyway.


Hi, my name is Rita and I have terrible boobs.

We've never had a great relationship, my boobs and I, but we've had our ups and downs - especially throughout my childbearing/nursing years. If you've been reading my blog for a while, you've heard me praise their practical uses back when they were, you know, functional; you've heard about their unfortunate mishap during Zumba; and you've heard me complain about my babies stretching them out like freaking Silly Putty.

Although I was never exactly "well-endowed" in the cleavage department, I absolutely did not appreciate what I had. They may have been on the smallish side, but at least they were, like, closer to my collarbone than to my bellybutton. Now, post-children, they've said, "Our work here is done!" and decided to lay down for a permanent nap.

This is a dramatization for illustrative purposes. They weren't quite that nice before kids, but you get the idea.

What's depressing is that my older sister, who is an actual grandmother, has an infinitely better (all-natural) rack than mine. Let that sink in: somebody's GRANDMA has better boobs. I can hoist mine into a bra with all the uplift and padding in the world, and they'll just crumple and fold into the cup. It's like trying to hold up Jell-O with scaffolding. Or remember that movie Weekend at Bernie's where they tried to prop the dead guy up all the time? It's a similar situation. Only with boobs.

To add to the problem, I have a huge barrel-like rib cage. So once I find a big enough band size, it's nearly impossible to find a small enough cup size. Because apparently women with a large rib circumference aren't allowed to have teeny-tiny ta-tas. 

I've never felt my boobs were worth spending money on, so they've spent their lifespan clad in raggedy discount bras. But desperate times call for less cheapness, y'all. It's time for me to stop being a titty tightwad. So recently I was browsing Facebook when an ad popped up for a site where you can answer a bunch of questions about your boobs, and issues you have with your current bra, and they'll custom-fit a bra based on your answers. I eagerly started answering the questions, but couldn't stop laughing when it told me my breast type was ... wait for it ... relaxed.


I mean, when I think about it, I've got to admit that description sums 'em up pretty well. "Relaxed" is the opposite of "uptight" and my boobs are certifiably neither up, nor tight. 

It almost makes me want someone to say, "Calm your tits!" so I can reply, "Oh, they're calm. They're calm as shit. In fact ... they're relaxed.

The Super Soaper

Confession: I never use a washcloth when I shower. Or a loofah, a pouf, a sponge, a piece of steel wool, a cooperative hedgehog or whatever else someone might use as a mechanism to enhance their cleanliness.

To me, this is not weird. I guess it's the way I grew up, because I never remember using a washcloth except in the bathtub as a kid, although my mom uses them so who knows? Anyway. I've had this conversation with a few people in my lifetime, and it always seems like people think it's odd. I literally own two washcloths and they're, like, twelve years old.

Anyway, when I soap myself up - using only my hands, obviously - there is very little lather, maybe just a couple of random bubbles here and there. I'm saying this because it's an important detail in the story I'm about to tell you.

Bright and early yesterday morning when my eyes popped open, I realized my husband (Curtis) wasn't in the bed beside me. Then I heard the shower running in the bathroom. I thought about waiting until he was done to go in and pee, but I mean, we've been together for almost nineteen years so I figured it didn't much matter. And besides, I was about to piss myself.

I went in and sat down on the toilet in the steam-filled room. Seeing as I'd just woken up (and was, you know, on the toilet), I wasn't exactly in conversation mode, so I did my business without saying a word. But as I sat there, I couldn't help but listen to the sounds coming from the shower. And I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at what I heard: a rhythmic, squishy sound, one that I don't make when I shower.


Call me pervy, but I suspected my husband was, eh ... really enjoying that shower. You picking up what I'm laying down? Good. The sound continued, and I could tell by the way it ever-so-slightly changed - more bubbly somehow - that the volume of lather had increased due to all that enthusiastic skwap-skwapping. I debated. Should I quietly slip out and pretend I hadn't even been there? Should I yank open the shower curtain and point and laugh? Should I make like the spontaneous chick I was when we were dating and slip in there with him for some good clean fun? Decisions, decisions.

Finally I tiptoed over to the shower. "Need some help in there?" I said coyly, easing the curtain open to reveal Curtis energetically stroking his ...

... armpit? Oh.

Skwap-skwap-skwap. "Geez, you startled me," he gasped, lowering his arm, copious amount of lather running down his side. Looking like he had one of those foam machines in there.

"SERIOUSLY, WHO SOAPS THAT VIGOROUSLY?" I said. For crying out loud.

So here's my question: am I in some sort of weird, lather-less minority? Is it strange that my soaping isn't zealous enough to create, like, foam?

This is important research, people. Inquiring minds need to know.


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