I don't really have a weak stomach. I mean, I get the flu on occasion and, as a child, I puked pretty often but I don't vomit at the sight of someone blowing chunks and few things make my stomach turn.
But today, during our Old Rental Cleaning Session, I very nearly blew my own chunks. You see we got a ridiculous list of things we have to clean. I'm not kidding. I mean, one of the things we were supposed to do was dust the plumbing pipes under the bathroom sinks. I grew up with a clean freak father and he NEVER asked me to dust the pipes. So, back to the near chucking session. As I pulled the oven out to clean behind it I discovered that the previous tenants had, obviously, not completed every task on the Silly and Ridiculous Check-Out Cleaning List.
The sides of the oven looked like they were crying thick yellow grease. Lines of coagulated liquid fat crept from the top all the way to floor. But that alone wouldn't have made me almost puke. Under the oven there were pools of grease and layers and layers of dirt and grime and hundreds and hundreds of tiny rodent poops. And a cookie cutter that wasn't mine. We never had a rodent infestation while we were living there. It made me heave. More than once.