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The Further Naked Adventures of airforcewife

Poor Andi.  What with GBear's nude pediatrician neighbor, my potty issues, Andi's own incident with downloading adult content emails, and my adventures with the packers; SpouseBUZZ's G Rating may be completely, totally, and for all time lost.

So, now I'm going to make it worse.  And in true airforcewife fashion, this falls under the heading of, "You Can't Make This Stuff Up."

Because you really can't.

We are currently in the feverish "scrub everything that doesn't move" stage of checking off base.  We need to get our housing in ship-shape for inspection on Tuesday morning.

Or, rather, I do.  Since AirForceGuy's not the most hygienic of souls and my children are far better at making messes then cleaning them.

So, I'm scrubbing walls, floors, and ceilings and have gone through approximately 18 Magic Erasers thus far (love Mr. Clean - he's my hero).

Because I do have some sense of sanity preservation, I do the yuckiest first.  For us, yuckiest means the bathrooms.  They get GROSS.

Perhaps I'm alone in this, but for me cleaning the bathroom involves quite a bit of bleach, a scrub brush, and Comet Cleaner with even more bleach in it.  It works well.  However, there is a lot of bleach involved.  And I love my clothes - I'm a bit of a clothes horse.  So I don't want to ruin them.  So it seems to make sense that when the bathroom needs to be disinfected/cleaned/scrubbed within an inch of my life, I do it without clothes.

Yesterday AirForceGuy took all the kids somewhere (I don't know where and I don't want to), I made sure all windows in the bathroom were closed, and I got to work.

It went great.  REALLY well.  An hour later, the bathroom literally sparkled in the sunlight.  I took a proud look around at my work from the glistening tub and prepared to get dressed.

That's when I realized it - there were no towels in the bathroom.  And I was soaking wet with bleachy water.  To add insult to injury, all the non-bathroom windows in our house were wide open to circulate air so that I don't die from cleaning product fumes.

So, what's a girl to do?  I figured that if I stuck my head out first and checked the bedroom windows I could time my mad dash for a towel to a time when no one was walking in the alleyway.  I mincingly and carefully stepped to the door, took a deep breath, gave myself some extra chest support with my right arm, and ran as fast as I could to the other end of the bedroom where the towels were laying in a pile on the floor. 

My land-speed record was somewhat marred by the fact that I had two near disasters as I skidded with wet feet across the room - barely being saved by the wild waving of my left arm and some Matrix-like balancing of my considerable body weight; but with the wild elation of someone who has just managed to pull something off, I made it to the other side and grabbed a towel, turned on a dime, and darted back to the bathroom to dry off.

Until I realized that my son's bedroom had a direct line of sight into my own bedroom.  And the windows were open.

And the Comcast guy was watching and giggling madly.

I dead stopped in the middle of a run, deciding to salvage whatever dignity I had left.  Which, really, at this point in my life is none.  Doing my best Arrogant Joan Crawford impression, I covered myself with the towel and stalked into the bathroom and the safety of my clothing.  When I came back out (quite a long time later, I must say), the Comcast guy was gone. 

And the two thoughts that kept circulating through my mind were:  (1) Why was he laughing at me?  Would a little bit of a leer be too much to ask?  and (2)  Andi's gonna LOVE this.

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