Re-stuffing the hand towel bib back into the neck of my black shirt to protect it, I rested my gravity weary arm for a moment then plunged back in for a second time. I bet Russell Crowe doesn’t have to scrub his own bathtubs I thought to myself imagining tiny specks of bleach spraying back at me through the scrub brush bristles; hence the towel bib. It might’ve been less dorky to change my shirt to something other than black but I didn’t have any workman’s onesies that would put my bleach concerns to rest so why bother changing. I had learnt the hard way that even diluted bleach is as heartless as a man with bad B.O: leaving an impression wherever it goes. I had played the waiting game on cleaning the bathroom with my roommate brother and as always I had lost. Rinsing the tub with the shower head a river of sweat and grease laced grey water washed towards the drain to be washed away forever- until it reappeared the next time I lost the waiting game.
This last thought of mine brought me back to two nights ago driving home somewhere between the 401 and 416. It was dark, it was late, I had been in the car for 7 hours already and I had just run over a frog. I had seen the little hopper too late, just in time to see his impressive vertical jump get caught in my head-beams, and with an unnatural thump, like the princess feeling the pea beneath all her mattresses, I ran the poor little frog over; it was an honest accident that made me feel kind of torn up on the inside. I had nothing against that little guy. How did I know that it was a male frog? Because I had killed my prince before kissing him and that was the only reasoning I had for a frog hopping across my path where he didn’t belong. This was my fairytale story.
Leaning over the edge of the tub with my unflattering jean capris highlighting my bottom curled over the tub’s edge I again pondered to myself, If I was famous I wouldn’t have the death of that poor frog prince on my conscious. I wonder how many frogs Natalie Portman has killed driving down a highway….None! Because she has a driver driving her everywhere. The driver would kill them all. This was untrue I knew, and so was the comment about Russell Crowe. Any man who hangs out in St. John’s, Newfoundland in his spare time can’t be above cleaning his own shower from time to time. In fact, I would consider it most likely that a high percentage of household name celebrities do more than their share of commoner grunt work in their daily life. Those Elect ones who pay to be driven everywhere and scrape not a sliver out of their varnished nails pay with more than just money but also with their lives. They get their fame and money by fighting the lights and harassment of the paparazzi. They also have names like Snookie and write tweets to overstuffed leopard print pillows instead of creating real art and that is a much sadder affair than my current lot. Okay, so I’ll let the celebrity Free Loafer card go this time. I continued to think. But having Natalie Portman’s face and Russell Crowe’s money would at least make me playing Cinderella in a nicer tub a more attractive affair.