Until this evening. I had an empty squeeze bottle and an excellent idea: what if I crumbled up the bubble bar in my squeeze bottle, added a little water, and just used it like a less gelified shower gel?
Brilliant, just brilliant.
So I got out my whacking big knife and proceeded to pulverize my bubble bar, then bottled it, added water, capped it, and stuck it in the shower. And then proceeded to actually, you know, shower.
Somewhere around shampooing my hair, I noticed that a glob of the stuff was working its way own the side of the bottle. This, I assumed, was because I was a slob when I made it. I made this assumption because I am, primarily, a slob. And so I rinsed my shampoo and dismissed the soap glob.
Then I pulled out my loofah and the now-bottled bubble bar (which had now been sitting quietly for about five minutes, pondering its dissatisfaction with life). And flipped open the cap--
--and the bottle freaking exploded. A solid stream of soap bubbles, straight up four feet. And then, because I lowered the bottle, also a solid stream of soap bubbles going down the wall. WITH A VENGEANCE.
...It should be noted, at this point, that the bubble bar in question is brown, with coffee grounds in it. So the detonation zone on my ceiling is, in fact, a horrifying brown froth with black chunks. It looked like an urgent Medical Emergency had transpired on my ceiling. It looked like I had murdered someone with a length of bowel.
I considered life for a minute at this point, and then sponged some froth off the wall with my loofah and proceeded to get to the business of actually washing myself. And then, because I was still in the middle of my shower, I also shaved. Because these things have to be done in order. (And let me tell you, it is mighty unsettling shaving with the Brown Blast Zone of DOOM hovering over you, frothing contentedly.)
And THEN I sort of used my hands to squeegee off the parts of the shower that I could reach. Which, unfortunately, does not include the uppermost two feet of the room.
And so I finished up, and toweled off, and put on some assorted garments. And drifted downstairs to consult my mother.
"I'm just not sure how to get the soap off the ceiling," I admitted.
"Hmm," she agreed.
The solution, it turned out, was to balance a washcloth on a broom and sort of poke it hopefully upwards until the soap was harassed into leaving. So. All's well that ends well, or at least without any lasting damage.
But, let me tell you, the bathroom ceiling has never smelled so clean.