The B-List: YEP, IT'S A BIOHAZARD

I spent a good deal of time this past weekend doing the cleaning that was supposed to happen last week, which was actually the cleaning from the week before, pushed to the limits of reasonable procrastination. Maybe it's the humidity, but lately the most I can seem to manage is to gather up the toys, laundry, paper goods, etc. that accumulate hourly on every available surface. Bugglehubby defines this process of straightening as cleaning, a discrepancy which, back when we employed a housekeeper, used to provoke this exact conversation every other Tuesday at ten p.m.:

"The cleaning lady is coming tomorrow. So I need you to pick up all of your crap."
"That's what a cleaning lady is for."
"But if you don't pick up your junk, she's just going to clean around it."
"Sounds like we're paying her too much."

Anyway, by the time I get all of the straightening done, I'm too tired and demoralized to proceed to actual filth removal. So this weekend I put the Bugglekids on dusting duty, and vacuumed the floors. But I just can't bring myself to tackle the bathrooms. To wit:

• There is some mysterious reddish ring forming around the drain in my bathroom sink. Every time I wash my hands I can't decide whether to chastise myself for not scrubbing it with Lysol yet, or to push on through to what must only conclude in the discovery of a powerful new antibiotic thriving in there.
  
• During tubby time, I have to sit with a flyswatter to whack the kids' hands away from the icky mildew growing where the tub meets the tiled wall. Why do they always have to touch there?
• I'm sure that if I scraped all of the dried-up purple "soamy foap" and electric-blue-sparkly toothpaste petrified around the basin of Bugglegirl's sink, I might not be so surprised that we have to make a Target run already.
  
• After removing Bugglegirl's nasty potty seat, I actually put paper down ON MY OWN TOILET this afternoon. Something I haven't felt compelled to do since the spring quarter in college I spent crashing on one of those foam couch/beds covered in burnt-orange velour, sleeping off a Vicodin buzz.
  

Call me spoiled, but I'm just not cut out for cleaning toilets. Unidentifiable bits and man-hairs are just not my forte. Don't misunderstand; I'm not a total heathen. All I need is the threat of unexpected company and I'll be in there in a HAZMAT suit with the Clorox channeling my inner OCD in no time flat. Please, just don't drop by until tomorrow.