Have I mentioned, lately, that I've been battling frickin' Mono for almost a year now? I try not to complain or bemoan the fact that the only people that can beat Mono are teenagers; teens are the only people that don't have to work, don't have to go to school, can sleep until 4pm, get up for a few hours and then go back to bed without the world coming to a halt. Sure, they should go to work, school and be awake while the sun is up, but let's face it: they are the only people that don't HAVE to do any of those things. They have an out: they're teenagers.
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| Ha. That orange thing is a crank for the windows, not a broken penis. |
I'm hunting around for the crank to close our windows. Ha. Not The Crank, as in the cranky person that closes our windows. Articles are such fickle mistresses. No, Kiddo #2 likes to take off the window crank things and use them to wind up all sorts of toys that don't wind.
I shut up the dining room window and carefully turn down the blind. I do this carefully because when Kiddo #2 went down for his nap and I decided to sneak in a mid-afternoon shower, I did not carefully turn down the blind. Speaking of blind... I struck several dog walkers and religious salespeople blind when they glanced in through the (forgotten) open shutters as I raced to Kiddo #2's room mid-towel dry to see why he was screaming. He was fine. Oh yes. He was. The passersby, however, fell to the ground like overturned roly poly bugs, clutching their eyes and moaning.
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| Now I understand what Husband means when he says "You take my breath away." Sigh. |
Seriously? It's not THAT bad, people.
Their various reactions were severe enough to make me think that maybe Day of The Triffids (Wyndham) had occurred while I lather, rinse, and repeated my way to cleanliness. Until I noticed the carefully forgotten blind that was wide open. Dear Lord.
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| "But Ponyboy! You told me you loved me! You told me you'd always be there for me." Yep. I'm sure he would've been, Rizzo, if you weren't having his puppies. Sigh. |
I walk to the living room and pick up the 10 thousand bits of paper, cards and drawings strewn about the place. I opened up the whole house today and put up baby gates at the front and back since we don't have screen doors. Oh, not to keep Kiddo #2 inside so much as to keep Rizzo (our Jack Russell Terrier) from heading over to the nearby park where she would meet up with nogoodnick dogs and get knocked up with a litter of puppies faster than you can say Ponyboy. Every time the wind picked up, it kicked up the contents of my living room with it. C'est la vie, right? It's the price you pay for a house that is welcoming Spring.
And speaking of Spring, I washed the windows (outside and in!) today. In the two years we've lived in this house, I can safely say this has never happened before. I was too pregnant to do it the first year, I was too nursing to do it the second. I did the outside front ones while Kiddo #2 took a morning nap, did the inside once he was up. Brilliance. And brilliant-- I'm sure my excitement is all magic and placebo effect, but I swear you can tell our windows are squeaky clean even from the road. (the sparkle of clean windows may, coincidentally, have blinded more passersby when the sun hit the glass around 4pm this afternoon. Honestly. I'm a black hole of chaos.)
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| Is that sparkle from those clean windows going to attack me? Or is that just a cloud of funky old food descending on me? Hard to tell. I'd better scream loudly so it knows where to land. |
I circled into the kitchen and closed up those windows, too. You know, second on my list of terrible smells is the smell of food lingering in a kitchen. I don't know why, but when I smell some food residue scent, hours after having finished eating, I feel nauseated and kinda wanna barf.
I turn on the stove fan to suck out the kitchen stink and replace my olfactory noise with an auditory one, instead; that damn fan sounds like an airplane taking off. Husband comes in, mouths a bunch of things that I'm supposed to understand and turns off the fan. "See?" he says emphatically.
Oh yes. That's about all I can do with that loud fan on. I certainly can't hear you. While I might be nodding and smiling, Dear, loving Husband, I have no clue what you just said "See" about. I can only hope he said, "I just won the lottery and the first thing I'm gonna do is turn off this fan and say "See"."
...
Uh-huh. He follows up whatever his unheard comment was, with "Geez. It looks like it's gonna rain. Good thing you're shutting up the house."
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| Even Justin Bieber is grossed out trying to clean my side of the bed. Frickin' milk barf. |
And then it hits me: the number one thing I can't stand to smell. I look to the skies. Thank you, I whisper to Mother Nature, for making the day both beautiful and windy so I could open the house up all day long because Kiddo #2 barfed up an entire sippy cup of milk on the bed. Yes. Not only barf, but milk barf.
Smellicious.
And, really, it wasn't just on the bed. He barfed on MY SIDE of the bed. And the carpet.
But most importantly on my side of the bed.
An Open Letter To My Children:
I feel betrayed and sickened. Mostly sickened. I thought we had a deal: all barf, crumbs and random crap (including crap) is to be left on your father's side of the bed. The only things left on my side of the bed, which for future reference is Stage Left, include: diamonds, cute hand-drawn pictures and snuggles. All other things, including but not limited to the aforementioned articles, sand, grit, bugs, small plastic dinosaurs et al, are to be left Stage Right, also known as Your Father's Side Of The Bed.
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| Mommasaurus Rex does not need to wear a top. Perhaps that is why the dinos went extinct; no one likes to drink milk shakes all the time. |
Next time this happens, I assure you, a letter will not contain my rage.
Sincerely,
Mommasaurus Rex
Aside: I think the more energy I have, the more disjointed my thinking gets. It's like I've been so tired that all my thoughts actually slowed down to make sense, thus crippling my normal way of thinking. This particular blog is like listening to a sports commentator cover a Ping Pong tournament on the radio. While I'm thoroughly enjoying it, I can't imagine you are.
Sucka.
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