|(Not our actual tub. Actual tub found here.)|
Early on in our marriage, my husband made a grave mistake. He asked me to clean the bathtub. Eager to please my man, I dove under the kitchen sink (isn't that where everybody keeps their cleaning supplies?) and retrieved several spray bottles, a squeegee and a scrub brush. After I spent quite some time in a fume-filled bathroom, my husband came to check on me.
He found me sitting on the toilet seat lid, reading a magazine.
"Uh, honey, what are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm cleaning the bathtub." I answered, using my "duh" voice.
"How is reading Glamour the same as cleaning the bathtub?" he implored.
"Baby! I used Scrubbing Bubbles! The tub is cleaning itself!" I replied, very pleased with myself and my cleaning skills. "Look! They're cleaning the tub right now! All I'll have to do is rinse it off when they're done."
Then he did a very strange thing. He burst out in laughter. I figured the chemicals had gone to his head. He could. not. breathe.
As it turned out, the Scrubbing Bubbles' slogan was a bit misleading. They do not, in fact, do all the work so you don't have to.
On the bright side, he never asked me to scrub the tub again.