Y'all know that I like to set myself up as some sort of paragon of perfection, which is why I try never to actually know any real people in the real world. Confession Time: In the un-cyber world, I'm a mess, figuratively and literally. Today's story deals with more of a literal mess, with a little of my figurative messiness thrown in for fun.
Today found me cleaning my bedroom. I know, I'm an adult I shouldn't have to clean my room. (Believe me, my inner six-year-old threw that argument at me when I announced that I was cleaning my bedroom today.) Aren't grown ups supposed to be able to keep house and bedrooms clean? It wasn't FEMA ready, but I wouldn't be inviting company in either. There were two and a half months of neglected clutter build up waiting to be dealt with and a sad sock pile that was taller than my husband. So the iPod was plugged into the speaker, the recycle and shredder bags were prepared, my sleeves were metaphorically rolled up and I was ready to dig in. I'll spare you most of the nitty gritty details until I put my nightstand in the closet to be out of the way for when I vacuum (still not accomplished by the way) and set a sticky mouse trap on the nightstand to be equally out of the way. Later I found some earrings that needed to be put away in my jewelry box in the closet. Unable to reach the jewelry box due to the nightstand, I sat down on the top to reach over. Unfortunately, I immediately realized that I had sat down on the sticky mouse trap, wearing my favorite shorts. Google, or rather a site from Google, instructed me to put a cloth soaked in vinegar on the sticky stain and let it sit for a time, then follow with a scrub. This accomplished adding terry cloth fibers and a very strong odor to my shorts in addition to making my hands incredibly sticky. Palmolive and a lot of table salt removed the sticky from my hands, but my finger nails were unphased and I spent the rest of the day collecting things to them like magnets. As for my shorts....
Actually, the misadventure with the mouse trap is not the most interesting thing that I discovered upon cleaning my room. What actually prompted this post was the discovery of a paper, buried within a stack of junk mail that reads: "You Freaking Punch Drunk Horse!"
It is one thing to confess my lack of perfection to the whole world, but to confess to the whole world that my children might fall short of perfection is something else entirely. Still, in the off chance that one of my three readers might have children that don't always get along, I shall openly admit to having slightly imperfect mortals living in my home. The general tone of the insult sounded like an Austin and Nicole is usually the only one to whom he would fling something like that. And the fact that it was on paper...that would imply a vow of silence. There was a very intense quiet game between Erika and Austin about a month ago. See, I had pieced most of the story together before the children even got home from school. When shown the paper, Austin said, "That was when Erika and I were having the quiet contest and Nicole hit me in the shins. I was silently yelling at her, but she thought that I was using bad words so I had to spell it out for her."
That, My Dear Friends, is the truth about us. We're a little messy, sometimes to the point of punch drunkeness.
