I am a mother of a 14 month old, and I go to school at night, and I’m expected to keep a clean house?? What is that about? In between play dates, park and pool excursions, watching Bravo, and going on walks, I have lost sight of how messy my house has gotten. I am naturally a slob, and I work really hard not to let my husband know the full scope of my sloth-like nature. So actually when I throw my clothing on top of the dresser, instead of leaving it on the floor, I think that I am being neat. And when I soak the pan in water overnight, in my mind, it’s as good as clean.
I really want to pay someone to pick up my collection of bags (yes, there are three of my bags all on the kitchen table), scrub my toilets, and dust my baseboards, but Pat thinks that is a load of crap. So today, I’ll be cleaning. And I’ll be extra-surly–because it is hard to bleach your sink while trying to dissuade your daughter not stick the Windex nozzle up her nose.
Zoey has had the shits for a solid 18 hours now. But the thing of it is, it isn’t solid. It’s drippy and it’s all OVER OUR HOUSE. Last night she dumped on the rug we have under the kitchen table. She’s crapped there so much, I believe she thinks that that is an appropriate place to go. The poor rug looks heinous, but for some unexplainable reason we don’t get rid of the rug, nay, we clean the poop and try to not to talk about the dark discoloration it leaves behind. Shhh, it’s not really there. It’s not a fancy rug by any notion. But it looks cute under the table, and well…now it’s gone. Yup. I tried to steam clean it this morning, and the end result was even more heinous, so I threw it away. Good riddance.
Oh, but getting back to the reason I am selling my dog (quick side note: I’m not really selling my dog, but hey, if the price is right…), Pat and I were settling onto the couch last night with our assortment of chocolate goodies to eat while watching Top Chef–what is it about that show that makes me want to shove all kinds of food in my mouth and then do 100 sit-ups afterwards? Oh, right, it’s the stellar combination of amazing food and the super-hot host, Padma. That bitch. So Pat goes into the living room with his heaping bowl of coco pebbles, only to step into a gigantic mound of sick-doggie-poo! OH NASTY! After a threatening stream of four letter words towards our oblivious dog, we cleaned the shit and threw Pat’s sock into the HAZ-MAT waste barrel (what? you don’t have a HAZ-MAT waste barrel in your backyard for such occasions?? Weird). We put Zoey outside and brainstormed a host of things to do with her carcass after we finished hanging her by her toenails. We calmed ourselves enough to finish watching Top Chef (that show is brilliant by the way–oh, and the faux-hawk on that one dude could not be anymore out of place. He looks like a total douche). We finally let Zoey back in the house only to find her soaking wet. The sprinklers went on and watered the lawn and our dog with reclaimed water. SUPER! Not only does our dog’s ass smell like shit, but now her whole body smells like the inside of someone’s ear. Oh, and I forgot to mention that after every bout of diarrhea, we have to wipe her ass because if not, she’ll leave a poo-stamp on our furniture.
So… do I have any takers?
I want to cut all my hair off and deep fry it with a touch of coconut oil. Here’s why:
for 4 days and counting there is construction going on at my house…and no, I’m not renovating my kitchen. Although that would be nice; I’d put in some new lighting, pull out the counter-tops, and the cabinetry, and relocate a wall…or two, maybe add an island with a small prep-sink, some drop pendant lights, and a Viking range–
But what is really going on, is the association has been notified of some rotting wood in some of the houses (read: ALL THE HOUSES), and they are sending a crew out to replace all the icky wood. In our house they are working on the front gate, the planter box outside our bedroom window, and the beam outside of Berlyn’s window. Yippie! I can hardly handle all my excitement. So currently, as I write this, there is a man right outside my front window, (whom I can see), and he is chip-chipping away at our front gate with a crow-bar and one of those electric turkey carvers. Meanwhile, my child is trying to get her morning nap in, and my dog is running around in concentric circles, convinced that if she completes one more circle, the loud men will leave our house. And this defiantly disrupts my very important morning ritual of catalog flipping, blog reading, and coffee sipping.
I was flipping through the Bed Bath and Beyond mailer this morning when I noticed these gems
They’re slippers you wear around the house that mop the floor as you walk around. Ha!
These slippers reminded of something I saw a while ago:
I think I’m going to get one for Berlyn. It’s high time she pulled her weight around this house. No more free-loading for her. I’m putting that baby to work!
The clocks are set back. In my house we don’t half-ass the time change: nay, we embrace it as if it we were tourists in a foreign country trying our best to assimilate. We eat couscous with our hands, for-go toilet paper, and ride the Darjeeling Express while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
I sneak around the house when everyone is asleep and flip all the clocks forward. I’d like to think of myself as a beautiful clock nymph, bouncing from appliance to appliance, protecting those in my house from an embarrassing time-telling folly. I put on my silky white robe, ballet slippers, and my sassy leg-warmers, and at lightening-speed (ZING-ZA-DAN!) the clocks are all set one hour ahead. It’s a gift, a special gift from heaven, that I am able to do it so seamlessly–so effortlessly. I even flip the clocks ahead in the cars! No stone unturned.
So please, dear friends of mine, I urge you to do the same, because I will die a thousand deaths inside if I get in your car or pour coffee from your coffee machine and it says 11:59, but it’s really 12:59.
There are some birds that are sitting in a tree…
K-I-S-S-I-N-G, chirping all the time outside my bedroom window. At first it was kind of pretty, and I found their melody to be whimsical and carefree. But after hearing the sugary-sweetness of their call all day AND all night, the whimsy melted off. Yes, those damn birds are gibber-jabbering all night long, which coincidentally makes me think of the Lionel Richie song, “All night loooong, Karamu, fiesta, forever come on and sing along! All night long!” Which in turn makes me think of sitting in a blue carpeted therapist office. My mother used to bring me along to her shrink’s appointment when I was 8, and I would sit quietly in the lobby while I drank a 12oz can of Sprite from the vending machine and listened to soft hits from the 80s. But this one time, I was invited in to her office and my mom said I could ask her anything–anything? ANYTHING. Well, I was a bit low on money, on account of me being eight, and the new Barbie came out the week before, the one where she is a lawyer. So I asked her for twenty dollars. My mom and her laughed, and I was told to wait in the lobby until they were finished with the session. I wasn’t being funny, I really wanted twenty dollars…
Anyways, what were we talking about before? Birds- oh right. I don’t know a lot about birds, but I do know that when my friend Dena puts a sheet over Smokey’s bird cage, she goes to sleep–which would lead me to believe that birds don’t chirp at night. I had to google it to learn more. I found out that birds who call in the night are either protecting their territory, or trying to find a lova. So, I guess I just have to wait until my backyard birds find true love. Which brings me to my next thought: do birds have sexy time? Do they do “it” in the trees? Or while flying? Oh, those birds- such showoffs.
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