Bleachy Keen

Here is an illustration of what a dunce I am at cleaning (as if looking at my messy house was not a clear enough example of this fact).  I wrote last night of a bleach-cleaner related accident which required me to clean the refrigerator in my underwear.  After mostly saving my pants, last night I was brushing my teeth when I noticed the sleeve of my shirt was hot pink instead of gray.  It seems some bleach leaked up my arm and all over my sleeve without my notice.  I told myself after that I might need to stick to some less destructive chemicals in the future, like Windex (let me also add that this is by no means the first time I have ruined my clothes while cleaning).  But then the refrigerator repairman came today and after taking apart the fridge, asked me for some bleach to unclog some pipe (that is, in between telling me about his recent divorce and sharing an  endearing story about a very racist friend of his).  I thought about my past luck with the toxic substance but could hardly ask him to dig through my closet and get it himself.  He used a ton and then mopped up the mess with paper towels that he left on my kitchen table.  While I was disposing of the dripping pile, some of the bleach attacked me, though I didn't notice for several hours later.  I am including a picture of the nice design now found on the front of my red shirt.  I'm going to have to start a new section in my closet for clothes that have been abused by bleach.  That's it, I'm totally giving up on cleaning (I've been looking for an excuse).