the great bathroom debate

a tale of tolerance and tenacity

The Fluvog restaurant is a popular stop for me these days. Either that or I stay at the McGregor Cafe for a ‘happy feet’ sandwich.

You see dear reader, I’ve been putting my foot in my mouth quite a bit recently. Sadly, it seems I like the taste.

When I wrote about the ‘rarely washed bathtub’ that I loved relaxing in, my wife read it and thought that I was writing about her. Since then she’s been washing the tub after washing the tub. Apparently my comments on bathroom hygiene were less that lovely. When I tried to explain? it didn’t make anything better. It rarely does.

The filthy bathtub of my heart was a cast iron claw foot tub. It lived above a Polish record store on Roncesvalles Avenue. That’s where I lived when I met my wife.

That poor old bathtub didn’t like cleaning. Well. The whole bathroom was oppositional defiant against cleaning. It didn’t matter my roommate at the time, we respected the tub. Whether Clarence or Buster, no cleaning products were used in the bathroom for a nu…