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A few years ago, I was at Ikea (just a moment here while I bow my head in a moment of silence to show my respect) and found a laundry sorter.  It was THE BOMB.  A single hamper where you could sort your clothes into dark, medium or whites and when you’re ready to wash, BOOM A LACKA BOOM, you’re good to go.  I showed it to the kids and the Pre-Teacher Girl said, “Ya mean we can’t just throw it down the stairs anymore.”  Well, no because this makes it so easy to SORT and then I’ll just have to throw the loads in.   “But we like throwing it down the stairs.  This means we’ll have to go down the stairs and sort it ourselves.  Yes, that is the point.   It turned out I was the only one that actually used this and within a few months it was donated to The Land Where Lazy Children Do Not Live.

The other day, I was cleaning the fridge.  The godawful fridge that makes me crazy.  I got the brilliant idea to sort things on the door by category – condiments, salad dressing, wines for slushies……  Lookie here, kids, you just put it away by its category and then we’ll always know where it is when we’re looking for it.  Two days later, there was Italian dressing next to the Pinot Grigio and one of these things is not like the other, unless you know of a way to get a buzz from Wishbone Italian.

I let out a big irritated sigh and The Big Daddy did what he always does when my plans for an ordered home get thwarted.  He put his arm around me and said, “How ’bout you go wipe your ass and you’ll feel much better.  In fact, all of us would feel better if you did that.”   It’s like he’s a mind reader.

For a couple of years, I worked at a lighting shop.  We were the go to place in town for many things, especially lighting parts.  You’d be surprised at the hundreds of pieces of hardware and glassware that go into lighting and we carried them all.  When a customer asked for a specific piece, we’d bring them back to look at the inventory because two people digging through all those little bins would usually result in a successful find.

One day, an older man came in with his son, Buddy.  Buddy was an adult, at least 6′ tall and mentally handicapped.  He had broke the glass cover on a ceiling fixture and his dad came in with some of the pieces to try and find a match.  We all stood in front of a shelving unit that was top to bottom glass covers.  The dad said we had to do this fast before Buddy lost control and caused some damage in the store so we searched while the dad said, “C’mon, Buddy, show me how you can clap.  That’s a good boy.  Keep going.  Buddy, you’re the best clapper ever.”  Every time Buddy would get distracted for a second his dad would remind him to keep clapping and show these nice ladies what a good clapper you are.  “There you go, Buddy, you keep doing it just like that because these ladies love clapping.” 

We found a close enough match and Buddy and his dad left the store with Buddy clapping all the way to the car parked in front.  The way that man loved his son made me cry, and I wondered what would happen to Buddy when his dad wasn’t around anymore to encourage him to clap his way through the glass.

Last year I took the dog into the vet for his annual shots.  Henry’s a big boy and it takes two to lift him up on the table for the exam.  The doctor looked him over and weighed him.  89#.  That’s too heavy, she said, how much do you feed him?   I told her and then said, you know, I’ve got three kids and they tend to give him a bone just for looking cute.  The vet’s assistant says, “Sounds to me like you have a discipline problem in your house.”  What did you just say?  “Maybe you should make sure bones aren’t being passed out all day.”    

Everyone kept going about their business like nothing happened and I hadn’t just been bitch slapped by somebody who smells like dog.  Hellooooo…..customer here.  Me and my fat dog can take our business elsewhere.  I came home and told everyone I knew that story and they went all Jerry Springer and said, Girl, She Did Not Say That.  Oh yes, she did.  She dissed my parenting.

This year I took Henry back to Cruella DeVille’s House of Dog and when they put him on the scale he weighed 80#.  A nine pound weight loss, thank you very much.  Wow, I say, that’s great and everybody goes about their business like I’m not the next Jenny Craig.  He needs his teeth cleaned and Pretend Vet says he may have an infected tooth and didn’t we talk about this last year?

Did we?  I can’t remember, but I’ve got a whole year to lift weights and inject testosterone, cuz next time me and My Fat Friend go in for shots, I’m taking her down.

Right before bed, I went downstairs to take my medicine.  Three spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream right out of the carton.  The Lion King was standing dead still looking out the back door.  Staring right back at him on the other side of the door was a RACCOON…..on the screened-in porch, snacking from the metal container of dog food that he pried open with his raccoon fingers.  I called BD to come rescue the homestead from this varmint assault.  First, though, I put away the medicine cuz we’re both supposed to be eating better.  Everybody in the house came running for an up close and personal look at The Dog Food Bandit, but he skedaddled before anyone else saw him.

The next afternoon, deposited on the mat on the screened-in porch was a dead chipmunk, courtesy of the Lion King.  Oh geez, that kind of stuff makes me barfy so I got the Boy Child to take away the remains and left to go to J. Jill for some retail therapy for my jittery nerves.  It was too early to take my medicine.

While I was gone, Sylvester and Tweety had an altercation.  Three adults in the house and nobody notices there’s a bar fight with feathers flying everywhere on the porch but me.  It’s like the Wild Kingdom out there this summer and every time I open the door, I have no idea what I’m going to find.

Source: conflictingheart.tumblr.com via Dana on Pinterest

I love vacuuming.  It’s instant gratification and the prescribed medicine for my fits of OCD.   Since the Boy Child is moving into an apartment soon, I have been perusing garage and estate sales for things to set him up.  When my neighbor had a sale, I found an old Hoover vacuum cleaner for $5.00.  I know, that’s crazy.  Those old vacuums are like Sherman tanks, not the plastic crappy things that are sold these days.

Before it got put with the other things he was taking to school, I thought I’d give it a test run.  Geez, the thing was heavy to push, but it worked like a charm and I considered keeping it for myself.  For a week I kept that vacuum motor humming and told everybody about it, like I’d bought myself a new car instead of a five buck castoff from a garage sale.

Sherman and I broke up when I ran right into him and smashed my toe so bad I fell on the floor, saying shit in a hundred different ways.  I thought I broke my toe, but it was only bruised and the next day it was fat and purple and went wah, wah, wah all day long.   I found out those old vacuum cleaners can be dangerous and take you out if you’re not careful, so for now I’ll keep my plastic piece of crap.  In the meantime, I put the old Hoover to use……..just like a treadmill but without all the guilt.

If you’ve never been to Savers, you don’t know what you’re missing.  It’s a mega-thrift store, organized to the max.  In fact, I went to Target the other day and then Savers and guess which one was cleaner?  Hey, Target, spend a few bucks and clean up the place.

The Boy Child went with me and wahoo, he loves the place as much as me.  This time we joined the Savers Club.  Because $6.99 for a vintage camel-hair coat without a coupon is way too much to pay.  Now we’ll get advance notice of special events and I told BC that if anyone ever told him he wasn’t good enough to join the club, he should show them his Savers card.

The girls don’t appreciate the thrift store.  I thought they were snobs until Boy Child said that Mallie Bee told him that half the stuff in there came from our house so why should she waste her time looking at it again.

This is more or less true and I should be irritated by the snark, but instead I believe I’m reaping what I’ve sown.

The Big Daddy loves the Tour De France.  I think he fancies himself to have been one of those guys in his younger days, but now that he’s older he’s had to settle into being an observer of those fit, young cyclists vying for the yellow jersey.  As with past years, there was a spectacular crash involving a car, a cyclist and a bouncing trip down the side of a mountain.  Good stuff if you’re full of testosterone.  Ya gotta come in here and see this, BD said to me over and over.  Each time was a false alarm with no replay, so instead of getting up and down, I plopped next to him on the bed to wait for footage of the crash. 

The announcer doing the play-by-play said that he could tell that the current leader was really kicking it into gear and going all out because his trademark tongue was hanging out.  And I quote, “He’s got the longest tongue in the Tour.”  BD, did he just say that guy’s got the longest tongue on the Tour?  Yes he did.  He seriously just said that?  He did.  I’d rather see a replay of that cute Spaniard with the tongue than some crash.   BD said, hey now, let’s not take this down into the gutter, but he forgot for a minute who he’s married to, and how she goes through most days with one foot planted in the gutter.  And he forgot that was the attraction.