The morning after…

All night I have had dreams. Dreams where I am stuck in spray-on quick sand. That is, I have dreams when I get a chance to sleep… somehow we didn’t bother to order a crib for the squirming, kicking baby and I have no earplugs to drown out Snorting Hog (it’s ok…he knows I call him that and he thinks it’s funny).

Subliminally aware that I must try to tackle the bathroom before the maid knocks, I sneak out of bed. I’m relieved as I toss back the covers; the spray on nylons are still on my legs, not the sheets.

My eyes adjust to the brightness of the lights in the entirely white bathroom. As I look around I wonder if I can sneak some cleaner off the maids cart when she’s not looking. Not a chance… they have learned how to position carts to cut down the pilfering of those coveted little toiletry bottles.

So I step into the shower stall armed with the already dirt marbled washcloth and a bottle of shampoo. First I shower in case the spray-on nylons come off and stain some more. Surprise… the color remains on my legs. Meanwhile yesterday’s stains have now dried into smudges so tough they are fingernail resistant. I have no choice. I’m so embarrassed.

As soon as everyone is dressed, we head out for breakfast. I’m hidden behind dark glasses and look the other direction when the maid notes our departure. Wanting to avoid the risk of seeing her after the fact, I note that I should not return until the maid has performed all duties on our floor. Fortunately she has done so by the time we get back.

I open the door fearful of the maid’s retribution. The bright bathroom lights are on. I look inside. Yes, the bathroom is clean. It’s remarkably clean.

And on the vanity counter…

Prominently displayed…

I see…

A bottle of…

Industrial strength cleaner.

The next morning, I leave a $10 tip under the bottle.