Because I can’t get enough of soccer, this weekend finds me in Dayton at my son’s tournament. We are staying at the Holiday Inn. I haven’t stayed at one in probably 20 years as I have found them to be quiet honestly, dumpy and dingy. Lately they have been remodeling them and have caught my eye. More on that in another post.
The soccer Gods are ass holes, scheduling my son’s first game at 7:30. I mean, who needs sleep? Not I. I can’t imagine how early the parents had to get up that weren’t staying in a hotel like us. Our city is 1.5 hours away. Staying just 13 miles from the field put us at a wake up time of 5:30 a.m. Kill me now.
My husband got his shower before me, buying me 10 more precious minutes of sleep. When it was my turn, I was horrified to find how he had left the bathroom.
Hotel rooms are the only place I feel I have any control over keeping clean for a small period of time. Additionally when I’m at home, I have a constant to do list playing in the back of my head. Hotels allow me to focus on chilling out for once and not another load of laundry. So when my husband isn’t a team player on keeping this small piece of real estate clean, I get pretty pissed.
I walked into the bathroom this morning to find not 1, but 2 towels laying on top of each other as the bathmat. Did he feel 1 was too thin under his feet? I look over to the toilet to find one gigantic towel bunched up on the seat while his boxers and t-shirt were strewn over the vanity. He did however leave the washcloth perfectly folded into another towel with the soap sticking out: 
“Hey C!” I yelled.
“Yeah,” he called out.
“What did you use to get clean with?”
“Soap!” He said like this was the obvious answer. He had now joined me in the bathroom.
“But that’s the soap and it’s not opened,” I challenged.
“I used soap!” He said as he pointed at a square bar, sitting on a soap ledge to our right.
“Oh, sorry. I must have missed….” I trailed off as I looked to the counter to see my now opened, little white box.
“Did you use that soap?” I asked, nodding in it’s direction.
“Yeah.”
“Damn it! That’s not the soap you shoulda’ used. That’s my face soap! I put that soap on my face,” I whined.
It’s common knowledge that my husband doesn’t use washcloths but just the bar of soap to work up a good lather, really focusing on EVERY PART. To take it a step further he got cutsie with me.
“Oh yeah, that’s the soap I used to wash my pecker with.” He said, knowing I would flip out.
“The box said FACE SOAP. How did you miss that?”
“Soap is soap,” he said shrugging with a grin.
“No it’s not, now I have to throw it away,” I said dramatically as I threw the soap in the trash can. I didn’t want to wash my face with a surprise pub slowly gliding across my cheeks and up my forehead.
So a little bit ago I just got back from a Walgreens where I had picked up foaming cleanser. An idiot proof way to ensure your husband does not use facial soap again on his “pecker”. His words, not mine.
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