April Fool's Day "Be Your Favorite Blogger" Submission. Seven Hours Early Because I'm Going to Morongo Tonight. Bitches.

There are things about which I am serious and things about which I am blase and, without a doubt, soap scum--and the eradication thereof--falls in the former camp. Even the slightest hint of that filmy plague can send me into a furious pique of dervishry, and if you've ever had one of those, you know it can be both frightening and hallucination-inducing. It was in such a mind that I donned my rubber gloves (a light blue to match my fabulous eyes) and my cleaning product of choice, which is so downright lemony that its mere presence makes me feel like I'm being propelled down a citrus waterslide.

So I'm scrubbing away with the elbow and grease both working in maximum and syncopated overdrive, the poor little 49-cent sponge disintegrating under the pressure--like the occasional Space Shuttle--when I let my concentration slip. It was only the briefest of moments, but the scars will last at least until I win the $17K again.

What happened was this: I had buffed the porcelain of our bathtub to a shocking whiteness. The sun that FINALLY peeked through the clouds was intense in its glare and with laser-like precision, bounced a ray right off that shimmering sea of cleanliness into my eyes. Momentarily blinded, I threw up my sponge hand in alarm, slamming it against the vanity mirror, which cracked, sending splinters of glass, both large and small, throughout the room. One of them, particularly ornery and opinionated, flew right through the loose shoulder of my fabulous sweater (much like Barbara Billingsley, I clean in only my finest garments, or nothing at all; unlike Barbara Billingsley, I'm not afraid to tell the PTA ladies to "suck it") and into the wall, actually pinning me there, as if nailed to a cashmere cross, or to a cross wearing cashmere or something, quit being such a pedantic twit.

Recovering from the shock, I called out for my husband, Hugh Beaumont...no, that's not his name...I forget his name...I haven't seen him since the Carter Administration, but he's a furry guy, huggable like a bear or a giant ape. I then screamed for my impossibly cute kids, but they were playing Pot Limit Omaha all the way down stairs and from the shouts and table-slamming, the game was pretty raucous. So I sat there for a while, contemplating my fate, wondering why my arms were paralyzed, as if someone had put Durex Maintain inside my gloves. I could not free myself.

Maybe I was just in shock. I don't know. But I fell asleep there. In the morning, I woke to find myself freed. And wrapped in my favorite blanket. That was nice, whoever did that. Fucker didn't have to leave me on the bathroom floor, though.

And...scene.