Ryan's Toenail

I have a swollen big toe knuckle and bursitis affecting my left Achilles tendon. Saturday I was looking forward to a leisurely day in bed, feet elevated. My manic mind had something completely different in store for me.

I've been systematically cleaning my "master-bath". Wednesday, I'd had enough of the icky black spots starting to form a union on the cheap silicone grout holding together the equally as cheap bath board (for lack of a better word) that surrounds the alleged shower. I hate this chincy way out of hiding cracked bathroom tile. I'm dying to know just what’s under there. Is it indeed broken tile, and if so, why didn't the Ryans take a few minutes to repair the TILE rather than slap up this charade of a shower surround?

I attacked the crawling black ooze with full strength Clorox, opened a window and walked away...voila! No more creepy goop. Days go by. The sink vanity was starting to get under my skin. All manner of male and female toiletries were strewn hap-hazzardly around. My husband, in silent revolt against my purchase of Tom's Natural Toothpaste had be squeezing in ordinate amounts on his brush and allowing the excess to fall where it may. Normally, I wouldn't mind - Toothpaste is a marvelous cleaning product. But the obvious hatred for my penchant of purchasing "organic" soap, shampoo and yes, toothpaste propelled him to over-dose his brush in hopes of making it go away sooner.

I remove all bottles, boxes and tubes from the immediate sink area. I turn and look at the tile floor. I'd bet this floor hasn't seen a good old fashioned scrubbing in years; especially around the toilet. A few months ago a paid a roving band of immigrants to scrub the floors. I didn't stick around to watch. I thought oh well, I guess these floors are just too far gone, too lack-luster ever be restored to their original glory. Well, not today.

"I bet I can scrub that scuze off those tiles" I thought grandly to myself. "I was taught to scrub by the best. Box-faced German nuns knew how to scrub a floor, and they don't mess around." Scrub and rinse. No 'damp-mop' dalliance would do for Sister Hortensia. I was on a mission from God.

I hunted down a decent floor-scrubbing brush, a box of Spic n Span and an old dish towel for the rinsing portion of the task. I couldn't find a bucket (later, I located it full of shoes in the laundry room....) not to be thwarted by any such interference, I dumped out the wastepaper basket in the bathroom and filled if full of hot water and Spic n Span. Bare-handed, I scrubbed. Putrid dark grey foam emerged. Suddenly, the formerly black grout between the small tiles began to lighten. I rinsed. To my delight, the tiles were a lovely shade of light pink, beveled with creamy white. I was on fire. I knew it! I knew that pack of roving house-cleaners were robbing me blind! The scrubbing when on...

"Angie! Don't hurt yourself in there!" Bernie called in. "I'll do this!" "No WAY" I responded. See, I have this thing about other people doing certain things. Cleaning is one of those things. I'd trust Bernie with the kitchen floor, but I just don't think he'd have the same sense of urgency that I do for this type of task. I'm on a mission. I paid a pretty penny for hands and knees scrubbing ala the Sisters of St. Elizabeth. I was robbed. This was personal.

Around the toilet, under the sink. I'm rounding the shower stall when I find it, half embedded in the cheap silicone grout around the bottom of the shower stall. A toenail. This wasn't one of our toenails. I have professionals take care of mine, and Bernie does major surgery on his - they crumble. Nope, this nail was definitely not from this era. It was long, thin and white. From a wide big toe I'd wager.

Its Ryan's Toenail. I was horrified. Bad enough I'm dealing with the crawling crud in the shower stall, the petite pink floor tiles that haven't seen soap in 20 years, but now this? A TOENAIL? This was just beyond the beyonds. Its bad enough they asked us if we found their tube of Anusol in the medicine cabinet at the closing table. That on its own was waaay too much information, but now this. How much more could a person of my obvious low tolerance for 'ew' take? Some people could be satisfied with the visual once-over. Not me, not now.

I trudge off to the kid’s bathroom in the hallway and begin searching for a worn out toothbrush that would need to be replaced anyway. Finding my instrument of destruction I head back to my personal hell, dip the brush in the Spic n Span and start scrubbing all the way around the shower stall and doorway (where lint and dust seems to collect in the separation of tile to wall...apparently they forgot to goooze up these gaps with the silicone grout that never hardens...the sticky haven for errant toenails and other such bodily projectiles).

"You're gonna hurt yourself in there!" Bernie yells in. "No. You don't understand I HAVE to do this" was my terse reply. I'm scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush. Scrubbing, wiping. rinsing wiping again...over and over.

Finally I finish and take a step back. My face is beat red, full of perspiration. My clothes are wet and my knees are killing me. "Look!" I shout out to Bernie..."Its pink and its shining!"

Sure, it was a bit o mania that got me there, but just knowing Ryan's toenail (and any other such 'for laters' ) has been safely removed makes it all worth while.