I’m considering cleaning the shower. I’ve raked the back lawn, pulled weeds, and even cleaned the frog’s aquarium. It’s probably time to take on my shower.
That’s serious business, as I rank shower scrubbing somewhere between having a cavity filled and answering the door to a salesperson. I’ve argued for years (largely to myself) that shower scum is clean. It’s mostly soap, right? And soap is clean. Anyway, I can’t see the shower scum when I’m in there — no contacts, no glasses, no vision, no scum. I’ve been certain that, if it became dire enough, the actual shower space would shrink in size. Then I’d be sure to notice the build-up and, of course, take action. Follow that logic?
When I was married, I never cleaned a shower. My then-husband (less sight-impaired in water than I) was yucked out long before I was and, bless him, found the sight motivating enough to break out the scrubbing gear and wage war against the cruddies. And he had tools. Upon his request, his folks bought him an electric scrubber, equiped with attachments of varying shapes, sizes, and textures. It turned shower cleaning into an occasion for power tools. More importantly, it worked for him.
Two years ago, when we separated and the shower became mine-all-mine to clean, I retained custody of the fancy device. I tried it out a few times, discovering after the first go-around that the thing scatters drops of soap/scum/water/and who-knows-what’s-really-in-it shower cleaner everywhere, including on the user. Not pleasant, although I guess the shower improved after the experience.
About a year ago, I switched to manual methods employing a baking soda/castile soap/water mixture, a scrub brush, and vinegar to rinse. I still ended up wet and splattered, albeit with nontoxic cleaner this time. I’m not sure it was much more work, factoring in hefting the weight of the power scrubber versus the muscle required to remove that cement-like film. Again, a clean(er) shower. I gave the power cleaner to its rightful owner.
It’s time again, and I’m stalling (as usual). For the past month, I’ve occasionally sprayed some evironmentally-better-but-still-stinky stuff, hoping to loosen the hold of the scum, but of course the situation is way beyond that remedy. When your twelve-year-old son says the shower needs cleaning, you know it’s way past time to face the bubbles.
So I’m off to clean the shower. Really. Just as soon as I proof this post, drink my tea, and — wait– don’t I hear the doorbell ringing?
Addendum (April 12, 2010): After writing this post, I got off my duff and cleaned the darn thing. An hour later, it was notably better. Thanks for the shower spray recommendations, but I’m leaning toward avoiding all shower use so as to keep the thing clean. Feels more proactive to me, although I imagine there would be social repercussions. I’ll have to think on that.