In getting ready for the parade party this weekend, I decided to take a stab at bleaching my bathroom ceiling. See, I don't have a window or fan, and a year or two ago my hot water tap ran hard for a week and a half. That resulted in a garden of mold spots looking down on the room.
Normally, I don't even think about the problem. It's just one more part of living at the Fives. But friends have described it as "disturbing", "disgusting", and "scary like in that movie Dark Water, where you expect the little blobs to form into one giant blob and kill you." That's not exactly what I want to show off when half of town intends to be in and out of my place, so I rallied the troops and went into battle.
My weapons were two mops and a couple inches of bleach and hot water in the bottom of the tub. My armor, a torn up shirt wrapped around my head so that I looked something like a spice-less Fremen and a pair of bright yellow household gloves.
Ever try to apply bleach to a 9 foot ceiling with a sponge mop while, at the same time, keeping it from splashing into your eyes or running down your arms? The war was lost before I even attacked. I need a pressure washer and a tall person willing to scrub. Or maybe I could just tie one of those magic eraser sponges to the end of a bamboo pole and go with that.
On the up side, though, the rest of my bathroom is now so clean that you could actually reach behind the toilet with no fear of grabbing something that would make you puke. Now all I have to do to get ready for the parade is clean the rest of my house, make a spray paint banner, get a keg, boil some peanuts, and remember not to party too hard the night before.