Bleach

"What is it with you and bleach?" my husband inquired just yesterday.

"The counter smells like bleach," stated my daughter.

"Why does the laundry room smell like bleach?", noticed my son.

Hello, my name is Julie Ann. I have a love/hate relationship with bleach.

The reasons I love bleach are obvious. It kills the bad stuff. It brightens my sinks and surfaces. It makes my whites, well, whiter. I used to actually streak it through my hair to make it lighter. This was WAY back then, before I knew about the existence of professional hair salons let alone could afford them. Bleach. What is not to love about something that can do all that?!

Well, for one, I've ruined a lot of t-shirts and sweatpants with the stuff. It can splash, and just like that you have permanent snowflakes on your blue Charger shirt. Crap. My hands hate bleach. Bleach eats them, nom, nom, nom. Yes, I could wear gloves. But, I don't. I would rather slather my disintegrated skin with olive oil than suffer through the awful smell that's left on my skin from those yellow, rubber, sweaty palm inducers. Bleach can clean your sinuses, but, not in a pleasant way. Mix the stuff with ammonia by mistake, and you have a toxic situation on your hands. Thank you, HazMat team for your timely response to my call. You guys were great.

My husband didn't understand "Why are there Clorox wipes in the kids' bathroom!?" as he tossed the cylinder down the hall. I suppose to respond to the obvious would be a waste of my breath. Perhaps I need to lighten up on the bleach, pun intended.