Friday, February 10, 2012

Petrified Poo

Let me preface this post with two things:
1.  If you have a weak stomach, you may want to pass on reading this one.
2.  I like having a clean house.  A LOT.  I clean every day and I am one of those ridiculous people that enjoys it.

Glad I got that off of my chest.

We live in a really great neighborhood, with fantastic neighbors, a quiet street and where I feel mostly comfortable with my kids playing in the front yard and riding their bikes on the road.  We do not live in an awesome house right now.  It is MUY expensive-o to live in California, folks.  Even if you live in a city surrounded by lettuce.

It's not that the house we are renting is crappy, it's just that our landlords (and probably all previous renters) haven't spent a whole lotta time and effort to properly care for a home.  Our landlords are very nice and aren't psycho like our previous landlord was, so that's a plus.  And our rent is amazing for the area that we live in - which I guess are fair trade-offs for the weird and sometimes disgusting quirks that we've encountered while living here.

By the way, I can't wait for the day that we are no longer living here.

Remember this?

They now match.

We've also installed light fixtures in both of the kids' rooms to replace the bare bulbs that graced their ceilings, painted a couple of doors, planted the flower beds, cleaned the carpets and fixed many other little odds and ends around this place.  If it were my own house, there are a million other things I would do to it, but since it is just a rental, it is difficult to justify the money and effort for something we don't own, right?

And it's mostly not gross.

Except for the tiny master bathroom.

When we first moved in, the toilet in our tiny bathroom donned a pink seashell toilet seat.  Ever seen one of those?  You haven't lived if you haven't.  The thing is, the toilet itself is beige, but the seashell seat was pastel pink.  If the lid was closed, the seashell shined in all of it's glory.  If the lid was opened...well, you would pray that the lid was closed.  On the actual seat part, there was a mark (or painchip?) that EVERY SINGLE TIME that I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye I would think that someone got poop on the seat.  Every.  Single.  Time.  And then I would gasp and remind myself to close the lid - except for that short time when there was no lid because the plumber who came to unclog the drain in the shower broke it.  Then we went to Wal-mart and bought a new, beautiful, not fake poop marked, not pink toilet seat and lid for 9 dollars.  Now, THAT was a great day.

If you dared to peer into the depths of this particular throne, you would encounter what you would possibly think was what someone had accidentally forgotten to flush.  No matter what I would do, for the last 1.5 years, it has always looked as if someone had gone #1 and forgotten to flush.

I scrubbed.

I Comet-ed.

I bleached.

I CLR'd.

I Magic Erasered.

I Clorox deep stain removered.  6 times in a 48 hour period AND left it to soak overnight.

I desperately paid WAY too much money to a door to door salesman who wooed me with an environmentally safe cleaner and promises of a clean toilet.

I poured a 2 liter of coca-cola into my toilet after reading an email forwarded from Gavin's grandma, let it sit for an hour and prayed for the email fairy-tale to be true.

I even roped my mom into helping me and we spent a glorious afternoon on my bathroom floor.

My husband told me to throw in the towel.

But the petrified poo that clung to the insides of the bowl that I'm renting and I had an imminent war brewing - and I wasn't gonna go down without a fight.

Today, I became the victor.

Armed with my holster of cleaning products, rubber gloves and a butter knife, I slowly chipped away at what I can only imagine is the DNA of every person who has ever lived in this house since 1974.  

I may have dry heaved a few times. 

I will no longer be horrified in the middle of the night by the sight (and smells) that would greet me when I would arise to pee and there are now scratch marks in my gloriously clean toilet, but I will regard them as battle wounds and pray that the landlords won't deduct from our deposit because of them when we move someday.  

Forever and ever, amen.

Butter knife in hand a half-way through the battle...

Desperation makes you do ridiculous things.
Or, just me.

SO freaking disgusting with the Coke in it.
And without the Coke in it.