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Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Tile Grout + Lycra = Big night out Part 1

Again...from the vault. Sort of. Most of this post was originally written the day after the night before - the night of which I have previously blogged here.

While still in my  grossly intoxicated  'jovial' state from the night before, I also wrote an email to my Mother, a kind of Happy Mothers Day for that Sunday, as she had wisely chosen to float around Eastern Europe on an uber-dinghy, instead of spending Mothers Day with her children and grandchildren.  But, you know, whatever, I'm totally over it.

So what was intended as a heart felt FIVE TYPED PAGES of  drunken rambling  email catch-up and Mothers Day wishes, actually came out as a pants-pissingly hilarious take on the night before, intended only for my mother, but forwarded around the globe to her mates at the speed of Email.

Anywho, I know my posts are already entirely too long, so I won't bore you with a copy and pastse of said email.  Instead, I'll re-tell what everyone has agreed was the absolute highlight of the story.

Which is, the re-telling of my pre-night preparations.

Now, given that it was such an epic tale in the email form, I've had to split it into two posts so I don't risk law suits for inducing comatose states in anyone reading this.

So, this is part 1, the Tile Grout and cleaning part of preparations.

Friday will be part 2, the Lycra and personal grooming part of preparations.

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I don't get out much.  Ever.  Not in the past 6 years, since becoming the size of a small island nation while pregnant with Miss5, and then having my personal small island nation invaded by little people.  So it was just a little  bit exciting for me to be going out, meeting new peeps, and enjoying free alcohol.  Okay so it was largely the free alcohol.

I had managed to offload the lovely twin tornado on some poor unsuspecting relative or friend, and I spent the entire day getting ready.  Seriously, the entire day.

The awesome Glowless was picking me up, which meant I had to prepare my house for visitors.  The kind of visitors who are not related, who I do actually want to impress with my domestic prowess.  At least to the extent that they don't feel the need to back up out the door and shudder, vowing never to pass the threshold again.

So I cleaned.  I cleaned the shit out of my house.

I mopped once with Jiff cream, because my sister-in-law used to have a guy clean her house who also did the forensic clean-up for the Police, and he swore by it for getting blood and guts out of everything.  So I figure if it works for bloody crime scenes, it will have to work on spag bol, crayons and texta on tiles, right?

For shizzle it did.

Only, it left a sheen on my tiles.  My floor, it did not sparkle.  Also, it smelt a little bleachy.  I wasn't entirely confident this was a good thing.  So I mopped again, with water.  Figuring the water would simply clean off the sheen left by the Jiff.

For shizzle it did.

Only, now the tiles just looked dull.  Not shiny, but not sheeny.  I was a nervous wreck by this stage - Egads, how could I allow the soles of the G-Lady's shoes on such....blah....tiles?  So then I mopped FOR A THIRD TIME with Windex.

One freaking hour later, and I'm finally sufficiently happy with the tiles to move on.

So then I cleaned the toilet in case Glowless needed to wee when she came to my door.

And then I cleaned the bathroom because she's a lady and she would wash her hands if she used the loo.

And then I cleaned the kitchen in case she wanted a drink of water.

And also the fridge, because it's only right to offer cold water from the fridge, and I didn't want her to see any mangled mango, shrivelled sausage, or festering fruit.

And then I cleaned every visible surface in case she wanted to sit down and talk about the weather while sipping her water, after taking a whizz in my loo, and washing her hands in my bathroom.

Yep, my mind really does go to all those places.  It's quite tiring being me sometimes.  You can understand why I like wine and vodka now, right?

But wait...there's more.  And I'm not talking about a shit set of steak knives.

For the rest of the story, including how the lycra comes into it - you'll just have to wait another 2 days.

1 comment:

  1. I hate it when Mr Fussy suggests that we have visitors to the farm because it takes me about 3 days straight to get it to a presentable state. No kidding. It's not the we live like slobs. It's just that city folk just aren't as laid back as I am about spider webs in the toilet or red dust coating every surface of the house. Good tip on the Jiff!

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