WOTF

What’s on the floor?

That’s a game My Queen and I play.  It’s a simple game, as the name implies. Although not implied in the name is that it also accommodates other surfaces. Counters, walls, ceilings, if it’s questionable and unsettling, it’s fair game in our little guessing game.

It’s a game for unlimited players, but there are no winners, and usually, yes, there is a loser.  And as you can guess, that loser is usually me.

“Sorry!”

Nope.  That’s a different game.  Usually nobody says anything more than, “Oh yeah” in What’s on the Floor. It was like that the time we played on our first Thanksgiving in our new apartment. 

That year I grilled the turkey.  Now I don’t grill the turkey using a rotisserie. My grill isn’t that big.  I use the V-shaped wire rack from the roasting pan. That way I can pick up the turkey and turn it as needed without it sticking.

I don’t want the turkey sticking to the rack either. So I spray that down with Pam. Holding the wire V-rack in the air, I spray it down good. Only when the can is almost empty am I satisfied that the turkey will never stick.

Continuing to the next part of my turkey task, I remove the bird from the brine bucket—sort of. Unfortunately, the bird didn’t want to leave.  I’m not sure how, but a wing clipped the bucket’s handle, and when I lifted, the bird, I also lifted the bucket. No problem, I try setting the bird and bucket down. Except somehow the bird-hold is lopsided and off balance: the bucket doesn’t want to sit flat on the floor.  If I’m going to set it down without sloshing salt water all over the floor, I’m going to need help.

“Honey!  Help!”

I guess I sounded urgent, because my beloved queen ran into the kitchen, and would have continued outside if she hadn’t slammed into the wall first. She tried to stop. Her socked feet quit moving and she tilted her body to make the adjusted turn, but just like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, she slid right on through when she hit the spot where I had sprayed Pam through my V-rack.

No stick surface indeed.

When she hit the wall, she dropped like a sack of yams, and of course gallant Sir Rob dropped turkey and bucket to check on his beloved lady. The bucket hit the corner and tilted all the way over. Water spilled, and a salty wave washed across the floor and lapped against My Queen’s prone body.

She looked up at me, eye’s trying to focus. “Darling, what’s on the floor?”

“Oh yeah…you’re gonna laugh.”

“I doubt it.”

So that’s our game. Like I said, it’s a wonderful game. Friends come over and play sometimes. 

“Uh, what’s the black spot on the counter and why is it moving?”

“Oh yeah…just run a bleached cloth over it.  It’ll be fine.”

Last night we played in the tub.  No, not a good game.  The What’s on the Floor game, and yes, as you guessed it, it was not on the floor but in the tub.

We have a special tub in our apartment.  The hot water pouring out of every other tap is hot enough to poach an egg. The bathtub water gets warm enough to slowly melt ice: when we’re lucky. The trick is, we need to run it for about a half hour first.

The water may be cold, but the pressure is good.  It comes out of the bath spigot fast enough to close the drain and fill the tub.  So while you’re warming shower water, you need to check the drain release every minute or so or you’re having a bath with your shower.

That was the case for my shower last night.  I forgot and the tub filled. Not too big of a problem.  I figure I can soak my feet for the first few minutes of the shower.  It’ll serve a double purpose.

As I say, we do play What’s on the Floor in our house, so I’ve learned to look before I leap.  Sure enough, there’s something in the bottom of my shower water. I can’t tell quite what it is, except that it’s a small oval of white plastic.

Feeling brave, I grab it by the sides and pull it out.  It’s the disposable head of My Queen’s razor.  Nothing scary about that. I go to put in on the side of the tub.

Now I’m never been too familiar with women’s shaving products.  I always assumed they were the same as men’s shaving products. I mean, comparing disposable razor heads, there’s wedge of plastic and multiple blades. The only difference seems to be that men’s blades have a white or green strip to ease razor burn and women’s blades have two pastel colored strips on either side of the blade. The strips are colored to match the razor handle, because women like things to match. My Queen’s razor and strips are lilac. I get it.

No I don’t. I’m a freaking idiot. There must be something special about women’s body hair, something abrasive and alien.  The two purple stripes on my queen’s razor? Those aren’t razor burn easers. They’re viscous varnish remover strips.

When I tried to set the razor head down, the purple stripes had turned to goo in my hands. Remember the movie Alien? Remember the weird sticky goo all over the walls? Paint is purple and slather it in strips on a razor and you’ve got the goo now warming my hands.

I’m just trying to get rid of the razor blade and I’ve got purple gummy strands stretching everywhere. They’re on my fingers. They’re on my hand. They’re on my other hand because I’m trying to get it off the first. I can’t shake off the purple snot, and it doesn’t ball like adhesive, it just squish stretches.

I rinse my fingers and eventually the stuff is gone. Taking with it a piece of my manhood. There’s still goo stretching from the blade to the side of the tub, but I ain’t going anywhere near that thing.  I don’t know what my wife shaves off her legs that requires warm purple goo. I don’t think I want to know. I just want to shower, and be clean again.

The remainder of the tub water oozes down the drain with the remainder of the purple goo before I allow my sensitive toes to step into the tub. By that time what tepid water is gone. The water stabbing me from the showerhead is about the temperature of Niagara Falls in September.

Taken aback, I jerk back, and find myself on my back on the bottom of the tub. My feet have no traction on the tub-floor. Even lying on my back, I feel my body slosh friction free against the tub.

As Niagara showers over my head, and birds and stars spiral my brain, I call out to my wife.  “What’s on the floor of the tub?”

“Oh yeah,” she yells from the bedroom, “be careful in there. I took a bath. There’s bath oil in the tub…”

I look to the left, on top of the toilet seat is a can of Pam.

Well played my love. Well played…