And "later" is not "hours later, after working and cussing half the night." No, "later" is "the moment we start wrestling with the doors," because she almost immediately gets gouged in the cuticle by some sharp edge. Now, I know "in the cuticle" doesn't sound terribly bad, but you have to imagine an inch-long gash that starts at her cuticle and jags down towards the knuckle. Blood spurts everywhere. I run for bandaids; she bleeds through two of them almost immediately. Drops of blood go flying--the wall, the floor, the toilet tank, the toilet lid, the shampoo bottles, the shelves. On the front of one panel and the back of another, you can see giant splashes of blood that, in the humidity of the recently-steamy bathroom, start rolling down in slow rivulets towards the bottom. In fact, on the back panel, where the carnage is the worst, I will later find the gob of skin that must have been gouged in the first place. If you look very, very closely, the bloodstains seem to spell out NORMAN BATES WUZ HERE.
And we can't clean it up, because every time we clean it up there's more, and we're trying to wrestle the panels into place and be done with it, and she's bleeding, and cussing, and furious. I figured she was mad because damn, she just lost a chunk of finger, but I realize later that she's mad because she has a meeting on Thursday, and she thinks that the wound looks "so bad." Bad as in "they will be all judgy about it." What? Because, like, it was clearly inflicted by your pimp? Put a bandaid on it! "That looks worse!" Oh, well, of course. Everyone knows that only dirty hoors wear bandages. What? This is a woman who is slightly obsessive about her manicure, is all I can think of to explain it.
So finally, we just give up on the doors. I know how they fit together, but Mom cannot wrap her mind around it, somehow (in her defense, she's never showered upstairs, and hasn't spent as much time idly staring at the doors as I have), and even going by my instructions, there seems to be some piece that's just missing. So we're going to have to call our plumber-handyguy, who is a total sweetheart, but we're already paying him off for some problems with the downstairs toilets last month, and Mom is not happy about having to spend more money right now. So I may be selling a kidney to pay for my shower doors, if anyone's buying.
So then. I'm not proud of this, but we have a pretty junky bathroom. I mean, it was very pretty when we moved in, but now it's covered in girl-clutter. I counted, literally, I am not kidding, twelve bottles of Garnier Fructis shampoo and/or conditioner milling about on the floor, and none of them are even mine. Sister Girl has her own bathroom, but it's tiny, so basically she colonized mine as well. Which leads to a great deal of disgust and resentment on my part that I'm having to clean up her hair sheddings as well as mine, her trash in the basket, her wet towels, her gobs of toothpaste in the sink--wait, why is toothpaste all gobbed up in the sink? So, you know. Two girls, a lot of hair, the occasional bout of home hair-dyeing, and a sheddy dog who likes to sleep on the tile floor at night. You see where I'm going with this. And never mind that I keep finding stray drops of gore from last night. So now, I have to clean it up before Handyguy and Handyguy Friday show up, even though really it should be clean anyway, STOP JUDGING ME! And forget your dainty sponges and your Scrubbing Bubbles. I pull out the Comet Cleansing Cream (With Grit!) and a big ol' scrub brush and turn on pretty music and get to work.
I am now halfway done.
It turns out that Handyguy can't come until tomorrow, so I am taking a break, because the cleanser fumes are starting to get to me. Also, you can just call me Cleo of the White Hands now, because I am totally bleached. You've heard of dishpan hands? I have toiletbowl hands. So I'm going to kick back now with a Mountain Dew and a handful of cocoa butter lotion and try to clean the bathtub with THE POWER OF MY MIND.