I while back (like about five years ago) I noticed that my feet were becoming somewhat dry and flaky.
I very, very infrequently gave them a bit of a foot bath, a scrub, and a coat of peppermint balm, but it has been some time since I have treated them to such an experience.
Besides, hauling the one bucket we have for feet and for floor mopping up the stairs isn’t something I can get anyone to do for me. Fuckers.
Mostly, I just haven’t had the time or inclination.
I do, roughly weekly, mention I really need a pedicure. Whether I’m talking to myself or not, I have no idea; the point is, there has not been one organised, by me or anyone else.
Popping in to a chemist a while back to grab some squishy things for the inside of my heely shoes, I came across a largish block of “foot soap”; complete with lump, seedy bits for exfoliation et cetera.
It also proclaimed to have such substances as peppermint oil and the like, for cooling and relief and all the rest of it.
Whatevs. I just wanted something to scrub my feet with and make them a little smoother, ideally whilst I was doing something else somewhat productive so I’d actually remember to do it.
Bought the scrapey soap, I did, and plonked it onto the soap rack next to the ‘normal’ soap.
This was, apparently, to the immense delight of Chippie, whom I dragged into the shower with me this evening, after his swimming lesson, so that he would actually partake in some form of decent cleansing.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA,” he declared in a somewhat random manner. As he is wont to do from time to time. Often, one cannot determine what it is that has brought on such mirth from the child.
“It’s rat poo soap!” he yells, in the confined space of the shower stall, which is fabulous for one’s ears.
“RAT POOOOOOOO!” he yells some more.
“Why you got rat poo soap?” he enquires.
I attempt to explain, but dry feet have nothing on the word “poo” and the message was lost.
Grumpy walks in form work, and in what appears to be a moment of Does Anyone Else Want To Come In And See Me Naked? For it can be rather like Grand Central Station in my bathroom when I am showering.
I escape, he hops in and picks up my relatively newly acquired rat poo/foot soap.
“Why did you buy this soap?” he asks.
Now, Grumpy Pants is one of these people that does things like “Should I click ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on this message?” then goes ahead and clicks something before you’ve had time to find out what he’s talking about. Often he will have click, click, clicked and majorly fucked something up, causing me to get a headache and yell, and roll my eyes and say “What the fuck did you do?” and he smirks and smiles and says “You’ll be right, you know what you’re doing.”
It’s foo …” is about as much as I get out before he starts washing himself with it.
“NOT YOUR TESTI …” is all I manage to yell before I see my soap being worked down and around his nether regions.
“ARGH!” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s foot soap! For FEET! Not for testicles. Don’t use it on your balls!” I explain.
“Why not?” is the response.
I could go any direction here:
It contains peppermint oil and may burn your knob.
The harsh surface of the soap is not good for the delicate skin of your scrotum.
It’s been used to scrub my feet, and now you’re using it on your balls.
Any number of caring, compassionate replies.
After the rat poo discussion, and the fact I had a sizeable audience for and in my shower, I just blurted.
“Because I have to use it to do my feet and you’ve just WASHED YOUR BALLS with it. I don’t want to use it on my feet after it’s been on your balls!”
I think he missed the seriousness of the issue, because he just laughed.
I suspect he may have then washed his bum with it after I stomped from the room.
I don’t want to use it on my feet after he’s washed his bum with it!