Lying is bad. I know that. I try not to lie. In fact, I make it pretty much a rule: no lying.
So, when I spilled (well, mostly flung) fresh soap on the beautiful, cherrywood floor that my lovely (normally supportive!) spouse installed in our house, I naturally was panicked, scared and galvanized to become a cleaning machine before too much damage occurred.
I felt smart, fast and slightly brilliant as I surveyed the shining cherrywood floor. It looked like it had been shined and buffed. Certainly, it did not appear to have any soap on it.
I happily went about my night and mentioned nary a word about the incident of the soap on the beautiful floor.
Then, last night, we’re having dinner and my lovely (now observant?!) spouse looks down and says “Hey, what’s that?” And there, my friends, was a huge glopping of soap. I don’t know how I missed it. It was plastered to the wall and to the cutting block island for all to see in all of its splendor and glory. I immediately got on my hands and knees and started scraping and scrubbing.
I’ll post tomorrow with what the underside of that lovely (albiet abstract) glop of soap on wood turned out to look like when it was all said and done. I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t pretty.
