Phil Rosenthal Is Going to Save the World.

There are people in this world who just need to be watched.

I mean this in a good way. Not in a, “I see you there,” kinda way. That kind of watching is reserved for my children, and it takes a lot of energy.

The good kind of watching is easier. It brings joy. It engenders laughter.

Also, total bonus points if street food is involved.

And so, I give you this guy:

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Phil Rosenthal is a Really Famous Writer. He was the creator and producer of Everybody Loves Raymond, a sitcom that I STILL watch on a weekly basis because it provides marital counseling for me and my Ray + Husband. My Rusband, if you will. We watch together and I smirk and elbow Rusband, repeatedly,  because I am Debra.

Seriously. My life is simply a series of events in which I think, “What would Debra do?”

Ok, so, Phil writes stuff.

But also?

Phil eats stuff. And, we watch him while he does this. And my God, people, it fixes everything.

Here’s what I mean. Phil travels around the world. He eats things that are often bizarre and also wonderful and sometimes terrifying. While he does this, he asks a ton of questions. He doesn’t say “No, thank you, I’m full,” or “I’ll pass; I can’t tell what it is,” or “I can’t; it’s looking at me.” He has conversations over raw fish and pork bellies and some meal a guy made for him on what looks like a TV tray at the side of a bedraggled city road.

He doesn’t just eat. He inhales. 

It’s an extremely simple formula. Ask. Eat. Talk. Eat some more. Talk. Repeat.

I want my family to watch this show. I think my church needs to, as well. Also, the President, and Congress, and all those shouting folks on Wall Street. And anybody in the medical profession.

And also people who make things, or run things, or run people who make things.

And anybody who works in customer support or sales. They deserve it.

And children. Not because they need it, but because they would just totally get Phil.

In my Momsie kind of world, if one part of the world was mad at another part of the world, a press conference would be held, and it would go like this:

Official-looking serious person: Ladies, gentlemen, just hold you questions please…

Reporters: We have questions! How are we gonna fix this? What do we doooooo?

Official-looking serious person: It’s simple, really. Let me introduce you to Phil             Rosenthal. And yes, he really is going to save us all.

 

 

Ok, the best way I can explain the magic that is Phil is to tell you about Raymond. Stay with me here. This isn’t a needless tangent; it’s a trip to Italy.

In an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, Ray and his family are on a family vacation to the land of their ancestors. It’s a glorious trip, full of rich sights and sounds, and everybody is so excited and entranced, because Italy has special powers like that.

Everybody except Raymond.

Ray is not having any of it. He hates traveling, and then there’s his family, and, well, it’s kinda hot. And he’s tired. He doesn’t really fit in. He’s wearing shorts and white sneakers, for Pete’s sake.

And then, Phil wrote this scene where Ray, tired and grumpy, finds food.

Pizza. He finds pizza. Of course.

 

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And it’s really really good pizza. Duh. Italy.

And you can see it on Ray’s face. He gets it. With one bite, he feels the sun, and leans against a wall, and in comes Italy. And he feels at home.

Can a slice of pizza save the world? Maybe. It did for Raymond.

So, in Somebody Feed Phil, our beloved hero travels the world and yet he brings us home. He teaches us joy and good manners, and inquisitiveness, and bravery. He instructs us that goofiness is good, and that humor is the great leveler.

He is kind. He is funny. And he manages to do all of this while still barely hanging onto the barest rudiment of foreign languages and societal protocols.

And, if Phil can do it, so can we.

It’s diplomacy, with appetizers.

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As a Netflix StreamTeam blogger, I get to watch the wonderfulness that is Netflix, and then chatter about it on Momsie. It’s a great gig.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Not a lot of depth, whole lotta shimmy and shake.

I used to think that reality television was so lame, y’all. I mean, who would want to watch some mom try to feed her eight children while learning her new dance routine while losing weight and also picking fights with everyone?

Who would wanna watch that?

ME, THAT’S WHO.

Ok. I am not into a ton of reality shows. I have my favorites. They usually involve food and anything with Paul Hollywood, and I tell you, true. Paul Hollywood could butter toast and it would be done with a steely, blue eyed stare and he wouldn’t even have to touch the butter with a knife: HIS EYES WOULD MELT THE BUTTER. LIKE MELT IT, RIGHT ON THAT TOAST.

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But I digress. My POINT is that I wonder sometimes… do you guys really wanna read about my life? Like… watch me do some laundry and then put it away? Like… that really makes good reading? For reals?

Well, if the Kardashians can do it, so can I.

Scratch that. I kinda have to think that the Kardashians have someone ELSE do their laundry. They mainly seem to sit around on huge, fluffy couches a lot and then do yoga in impossibly tight and misappropriated yoga clothing.

Anyhow. I am telling you all of this, to basically say:

This post is about nuthin. Well, almost nothing. It’s like on the cusp of nothing.

Like every reality show, in the history of ever, there’s not a lot going on here, but there’s a whole lotta shimmy and shake.

So, we got back from Thankgsiving. We were gone for three days. It was like a non stop buffet of really good food (I tried to be good but at one point I think I might have actually taken the entire “take home for the family” plate of pie upstairs in bed. My husband found me gnawing on it like a guilty chipmunk, and then Brian walked toward me, and I had a mouth full of pecan pie and I tried to have a totally normal conversation with him. It was pathetic. I relinquished the pie plate, sorrowfully, after that. It was like Intervention, only with pastry.)

So, after we got back home, I looked around.

It was like my house got mad at me while we were gone. It was a MESS.

There are levels of mess in every house’s life. Some levels are just cluttered. Some are disheveled.

This house looks like it partied in Vegas all weekend.

I texted the husband:

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He responded with his oh-so-usual caring: I’ll help, don’t worry, it’s not so bad nonsense. But I knew, I KNEW, that if I did not deal with that house they would never find me. I would be buried under forty loads of Batman underwear and dirty dishes that learned to procreate on their own.

Of course, while I was cleaning I did have a helper.

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This is Dog. He has some sort of device implanted in his brain that makes him follow me closely wherever I go. Also, I do know I have the beigest hall in the history of halls. It’s a sad little hallway.

So, I would walk down beige hall to put laundry away.

Dog: OH MY GOODNESS I WILL GO TOO! WE WILL GO TOGETHER! WE ARE ONE AND I JUST CANNOT STOP STARING AT YOU BECAUSE YOU SMELL SO GOOD AND I LOVE YOU. THIS HALLWAY REALLY COULD USE A SPLASH OF COLOR!

Then, I walk back the other way, same beige hallway.

Dog: OH NOW WE’RE GOING TO GO ANOTHER WAY?? I THINK THAT’S THE BEST IDEA EVER! YOU ARE SO SMART AND CLEVER HOW YOU WALK BACK AND FORTHING WITH THE PILES OF THINGS! I LOVE YOU!

Then, I go down the stairs. Beige is done.

Dog: Oh HO! THIS IS SO EXCITING! DOWNSTAIRS! I LOVE THAT PLACE! I LOVE THE DOWNSTAIRS WALKING!

And so on.

Dog: AND I LOVE YOU.

Enough, dog.

So, after about four hours of washing clothes I was done. (How did so many clothes HAPPEN? I will give away all the clothes. That’s what I’ll do.)

(Should make for an interesting, albeit chilly, winter.)

And that is my post. It is basically about me doing laundry, but there is also this:

As I was walking back and forth, to the endless delight of Dog, I got a great idea for a story. I needed to write it down, so I grabbed my little notebook. Then, I looked for a place to store the notebook, because as every good writer knows, ones notebook must go back and forthing with you, everywhere, because you never know when the good ideas are gonna strike.

I didn’t have on a bra. That is how I clean. I refuse to be constrained. I might need to clean something up high, and my bra could accidentally snap and strangle me, and I would be found, later, by my husband, snagged by a bra strap, with the cats hungrily circling me.

It could happen.

Also: bras are just a pain.

So, I couldn’t tuck the notebook into my bra. Instead, I tucked it inside my pants. Logical. Sorta weird, but logical.

And then I kinda forgot it was there, until I went to the store and as I was walking down an aisle I laid a notebook.

Undeterred, I said, “Ta DA!” and picked it up and went in search of applesauce.

Dog: I STILL LOVE YOU.

The end.

 

 

 

How to stop eating your kids’ candy.

I see you there, Reese’s Peanut Butter cup. I see you. Mmmm-hmm.

I know you are chocolatey goodness. I know this ALL TOO WELL.

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Halloween is over, friends. Did you know? Last night, as I walked from house to house, holding my hot tea and trying not to stumble over curbs (It was dark! And cold! And I think people who I chatted with thought I was drinking! Because I tripped about five times! But only in their presence! When it was just me, I could walk like a Victoria Secret Model on the runway! But, with more clothes!)*

Halloween is OVER.

PRAISE THE LORT.

Our house currently looks like Willy Wonka blew up all over it. Both children seem to have the genes of their papa, because they have actually acquired more Reeses than I think is even polite. I know at one point that Red actually said, “TRICK OR TREAT WHERE ARE YOUR REESE’S PEANUT BUTTER CUPS, LADY?” whilst we were out last night. Because, you know, he is so polite and well-mannered.

It’s possible we had to stop all trick or treating for a full-on lecture that went like this:

Me: YOU SHALL NOT ASK FOR CERTAIN THINGS. YOU SHALL SAY THANK YOU. YOU SHALL NEVER EVER ASK SWEET LITTLE OLD LADIES FOR SPECIFICS, OK? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.

Small costumed Star Wars cherubs: Yes ma’am. We will agree to basically anything as long as we can resume our chocolate safari, ok?

Me: Then perhaps I should also add that you two will detail my car tomorrow, ok?

Small costumed Star Wars cherubs: SURE. WE DON’T KNOW THAT THAT MEANS BUT OK.

Anyhow. We carried on. We got home, cold and tired, after a hard day at the chocolate mines, and proceeded to lose our ever-lovin minds. (Red: sobbing. Blonde: sullen. Me: grim.) Such is the way of Halloween. It always ends with the monsters coming out.

But NOW, I am sitting here, eyeing all that candy, and thinking, if I start in on it, I will proceed to eat my way through my feelings and the feelings of everyone else here, and end up in a pile of fluttery orange wrappers and despair.

I am telling you true; I really need to lay off the candy.

Last week a friend of mine worked on filming me for a promo video for a speaking gig. It was awesome and fun and funny and even involved SOCK PUPPETS. AND ALCOHOLISM. I KNOW. HILARIOUS.

But, as I was watching the video’s final edits… I couldn’t focus on the message at all. In fact, I couldn’t really focus on much of anything except that I had about fourteen CHINS.

I do realize that the camera adds some yardage, but… does it add thirty pounds? and fourteen chins?

I asked the husband: “I look fat. Do I look fat?” He blinked a few times, knowing full well taht answering this will not go well whatever angle he takes, so he simply kissed me and said, “I love you.” Which of course means I am a freaking hippopotamus. But a well loved one.

Sigh. I know. You’re going to say: “Dana, embrace yourself no matter what. You are a child of God. You are beautiful inside and out. Don’t even.”

Well. I KNOW that. Duh.

But. I don’t feel good. And sometimes… do you find yourself inhaling Nutter Butters and they don’t even TASTE all that good? I think I have just lost my tastebuds. They are buried under processed sugar and carbs, y’all.

November. I see you. You are my month to reset, renew, re-imagine…

Resolve some food issues. And I’m gonna do it all here with you as my audience. Because, accountability. Plus, maybe… just MAYBE there are a few of you out there that want to join me?

So, stay tuned! I’ll unveil my FABULOUS NEW NOVEMBER PLAN-O-RAMA FOR…NEW FABLOUSNESS.

(Perhaps the first thing I need is to come up with a new title for this. I’m a work in progress. 🙂

Love all of y’all. Anybody out there (*taps mic) feeling tired? Feeling like sugar is taking over? Feeling like you need a little Re-new? What are your best tips for tackling such issues? I’d love to hear from you!

 

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*Halloween so used to be a drinking thing. But, not anymore. We alcoholics in recovery don’t drink on Halloween. Or any other day, for that matter. Just so you know.

Throw Back Thursday and Tiny Stormtroopers

Halloween is nigh, my friends, and it seems we have chosen Star Wars as the theme.

Huh. Like I couldn’t have seen that coming.

This year, sweet Red, who has been Luke Skywalker for the past few years, has chosen Darth Vader. My son has chosen the Dark Side. I know. I could read a lot into this but really? I’ve seen him in his Darth costume and it is fer SURE adorable. You can’t be full on Dark Side AND be cute at the same time, so that saves it.

Here is a throw-back from a two years back:

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This post was sponsored by:

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And:

GUILT.

This should be fun! So let’s get started.

Ok, one of my favorite scenes from Star Wars was when Harrison Ford has that cute conversation with the dude on the intercom. I love it because he is SOOOOO cute! The cuteness! The cute swagger! And he fits in his Storm Trooper outfit really well!

Yes, little ones, I am referring to the real Star Wars. The one that I watched in Glenwood Theater in Overland Park, Kansas in 1977. I was 8. Harrison Ford was a bit too old for me. I had feathered bangs, and Glenwood Theater had a chandelier, people. And velvet seats. And a deep red curtain that opened before each showing. It was an EXPERIENCE, y’all.

The other reason I love that scene is that I kinda feel like Han did in that controller room all the time. Sorta, erm, on the edge a bit and also: TOTALLY FAKING IT ALL THE TIME.

So here’s an update on my week:

The gigantic box from Netflix? Remember that?

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Well, it was just a tv. No biggie. Just a gigantic tv. Because, you know, I’M AWESOME.

Here is how my family reacted to this:

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Husband is blurry because I was giggling.

Ok, also: we had Halloween. So we have ONE picture of ONE child. I don’t know why. Just ONE child evidently was photogenic enough (barely, you’ll see) for me to point and click at him.

Here you go:

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Riiiiiight. I know. You can’t see him. Someday I am totally going to get fired for lousy photography. But, also…

(Wait for it…)

“Aren’t you a little short for a storm trooper?”

BOOM. I have been waiting my whole LIFE to be able to channel my inner Leia and say that! And now I can! With a blurry, dark photo of my cute, and short, son!

Oh, and by the way:

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WE WON THE WORLD SERIES. There is such goodness about this I can’t even use words. Well, no, I CAN use words, but they just won’t really do it justice. It is wonderfulness. It is nail biting games and extra innings and Salvie messing with us whenever he talks and stealing home and just a sprinkling of Paul Rudd, for flavor.

Oops, used words. Sorry. Can’t help it.

By now, I bet you’re wondering… where does the guilt part come in?

Well, and also:

I abandoned my child. I KNOW. This post took a rather abrupt turn, didn’t it? We were all happy and celebrating holidays and big screen tv’s and then, WHAMMO.

That’s called a plot twist.

Here’s the deal. My sweet Red, who is wonderful and adorable in every way, is also, well, how should I put this:

Slow. He’s just really slow. He likes to do things slowly. All the things. Eating. Pooping. Walking. It’s all slow.

This totally doesn’t bother me at all.

So, this morning, for some reason, Red really really had a rough time with some basics: I told him to get dressed and I found him, in his underpants, staring out the front door at the sky as if he were contemplating his life choices for his long five years.

Socks. Same problem. Found him upstairs in the train room, just standing there. It was creepy.

Brushing teeth? I don’t even think we got there because we were still stuck at socks. Poor teachers.

Anyhow, finally, I snapped. I uttered these fateful words:

“Red. We are leaving. You have one minute. If you are not ready to go then Blonde and I will have to LEAVE WITHOUT YOU.”

And. Well. To cut the suspense, I’ll just tell you. He got left. We left him. I LEFT him. I took Blonde, grabbed the dog, and walked AWAY FROM MY BABY.

And then, he proceeded to lose his #@!.

But I think he did hurry up a little. He made it to a block from school and I spotted him. He was sobbing and all the mothers of the entire town were surrounding him. I think a few cars had pulled over. Police helicopters were circling overhead and Fox News had been called.

I walked up and said, “He’s fine.” Not the best thing to say. I then explained (because he was NOT fine, but he was “learning a lesson” from his “evil mother” who had to “not relapse because of this morning” and needed to, no matter what, “stick by her words no matter how much it was gonna freak her and the entire community OUT.”)

I explained the situation, and Red headed off, with me behind him. One mom gave me a sympathetic smile, but I swear another one has decided to shadow my house now.

Sigh. I know. All of this kinda puts a pall over the new tv.

Mommies. I’m doing the best I can. We had done the morning dawdle routine just one too many times. I decided to stick to my guns. I just didn’t expect this:

He broke my heart. Seeing him here, all sobbing and sad. I just don’t know. The kid learned a lesson but I did too. If I am going to leave my kid to fend for himself I need to figure out a way to do it with in air surveillance and nerves of steel. As I have neither of these things I am going to try out one of two options:

  1. Get the kid up at 5 am so he will be on time.
  2. Just carry him everywhere.

And that was my morning.

Everything’s fine here. And… How are YOU?

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Throw Back Thursday – And Therapy

 

Here’s one from the archives. It’s a goodie. It also really let’s you know a thing or two about romance. So, educational.

Screenshot 2017-10-05 13.17.46.pngTHIS POST IS ABOUT SEX! AND FRIENDSHIP! WHICH SOUNDS REALLY WEIRD! STAY WITH ME!

 

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So recently my friend Rae had the audacity to move away.

Her hubs got a job in sunny California and she just LEFT me. LEFT, I tell you. I ask you, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THIS WORLD WHEN FRIENDS MOVE AWAY BECAUSE  MARRIAGE?

I know. Marriage is a holy union and all that but now… WHO will I send snarky posts about husbands?

(Backstory: Rae also has a husband who is adorable and wonderful, like mine, but at times we like to laugh at them via text. Because we can. Also, because it’s a fallen world and oh don’t send me an email, I’m working on it. Admitting it is half the battle, y’all.)

Anyhow. The lawyer is sighing heavily and reminding me rather tersely: We can STILL text each other.  California does have texting, I’m pretty sure.

BUT STILL SHE LEFT ME. SHE JUST LEFT ME WHYYYYYY.

I had tried everything to get them to stay. Whining. Random sniveling. Prayer group sabotage. That one didn’t work at all, even thought I thought for sure it would. We were all gathered around Rae, praying over her trip and her move and all the stressers and other nonsense she was going through, and I entered in with this epic invocation:

“Dear Lord, I pray also that she just STAYS HERE THIS IS CRAZY. Could you, like, smite their U-Haul? Nicely?

But, okay, Thy will be done and all. I guess. Not really in this situation, but OK. Maybe.”

Strangely enough, the Lord didn’t follow through on this. I will talk more with Him about this later. The cute little hipsters, Rae and Sean, and their cute little kids, packed up and left me.

And so, I did the next best thing:

I decided to be selfless and wonderful and clean their house!

Actually, the lawyer is AGAIN asking me to clarify: I didn’t come up with the idea. My legitimately selfless and wonderful friend, Alissa, suggested we do it, and I just kinda horned on to it, and told everyone it was my idea.

I know. I have not, EVER, tried to establish that I am anywhere near perfect in this blog. But this post really accentuates all that, doesn’t it? Does this blog make me look fat, too?

Hope not.

So, I cleaned. Alissa watched our umpteen million small children. I think I got the better end of the deal.

And, while I was scrubbing away… I found… THIS (small flourish, and audible gasp!):

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* Yes, I know this picture kinda looks like I am cleaning without any clothes on. Or maybe, that’s just me thinking that, and you didn’t really go there at all. Shows you how my brain works, doesn’t it? It’s a bit wonky. I guess, the whole “My heavens! Is she topless?” question is kinda fitting because of the subject matter. But, you know, it’s not that kinda blog.

Actually, I think sweet Rae left them for me. It’s a deck of cards. About Sex. Aptly named: “Sex!” The marketing team really went all out on this one.

It is the kind of thing you get when you get married and your hokey friends like to give you wildly embarrassing gifts all har dee har har, nudge nudge, wink wink, etc. And then, you put them in a drawer and forget alllll about ’em.

Until you move to California and you decide, “Hmmm, maybe I’ll leave these here. I have two kids under the age of 5 and I think I’m good on the whole nookie thing. I know! I’ll leave ’em for my friend! She’ll LOVE them!”

So, now they are at my house, shoved waaaaaaaay in the back of MY drawer.

For my children to find.**

Thank you, sweet Rae. My impossibly wonderful, tiny, fit friend. I will miss you. So very, very much.

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** As every married couple seems to get at least one of these goofy types of presents, you can be sure that:

1. We did. It was something with feathers and edible glitter and my gosh that just seems like a lot of work.

2. I didn’t toss the gift. Even though the likelihood of me using a feather during nookie is very slim. Unless I wanted to dust something. I know.

3. Red found it. And wanted to talk about it. A lot.

4. I scheduled an appointment with my therapist that afternoon.

Depend on it.

Linking up with my favorite writing community – Five Minute Friday!

The theme?

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I have to admit. The first thing that came to my mind were undergarments. We’re going to skip that one, ok?

In fact, I would like to forego any attempt at something spiritually encouraging. Instead, I would like to talk to you about my cat, Steve.

Some of you know Steve. He has his following. Steve is a large white cat who came into our family a few years ago. He adopted both boys as his own, and his large girth has been a well loved pillow, blanket, toy, attraction, distraction, and mascot, ever since. And then, he became quite sick.

Very sick.

I know. He’s just a pet. Just a furry white behemoth that lounges about and kind of reminds me of a slow-moving, furry barge. But there was this moment, when I was carrying him across the room to the bath, he looked up at me with such patient love. The poor dear was in pain, and tired, and covered in filth, and I had bathed him, without incident, a few times already. He never complained. He never fought. He allowed me to lower him into the water and wash his soiled fur, and then gently wipe him dry. He allowed me to administer pills at numerous times during the day. He watched me through all of it with a sigh and shrug, like, “All right, get on with it then.”

So, as Steve and I were working on getting him well again, I was reminded how much this small(ish) creature depends on me, for his food, for a warm place to sleep, for water in which I put ice cubes every morning, because God forbid my sweet babies not have nice, chilled libations for them.

He depends on me, and I am so very grateful for that. We call him Biggie Meows. Or, Sir Meows A Lot. And he depends on us.

This is a good thing.

Steve is all well now, and seems to have gravitated to my side more so than normal. He comes to me whenever I am seated at my computer, and sits next to me, waiting for me to pat his wide head. I swear I see a smile on his face when I do so.

I just love that cat. And that’s all. I have no moral of the story, or bible verse to tie in, or a Jesus moment for you. I just have this:

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Poor dear. He’s tired. And too big for the couch.

And that’s more than enough.

 

 

The sheets hit the fan.

 

This is not my laundry room. This is a stunt laundry room.

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So, the other day, I put in a load of laundry.

I know. This post is gonna rock your world.

 

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Anyhow, the sheets. My goodness. My mother bought me these sheets because she’s a mother and she still buys me stuff like that. It’s genetics. They buy sheets for you because you might sleep on a rock otherwise. She bought these sheets, I guess, at some really nice sheet store. They are super nice and all. And also? They weigh about four hundred pounds. I don’t know what these sheets are made out of y’all, but it seems to be some sort of bonded steel and fabric bricks, two-ply.

Also, when wet, they weigh about as much as four hundred pounds wrapped around an elephant who doesn’t want to get out of the washing machine.

The sheets, y’all. I struggle.

So, the other day, as I was pulling the elephant wrapped around an enigma known as the poundage of wet sheets, I happened to scrape my thumb. And this was the thumb that already had a blister on it because our backyard likes to go all jungle-themed every week or so.

THE PAIN. OH HOLY CAN OF HURT WORMS. IT WAS LIKE A THOUSAND ARROWS, ALL POINTY-POINTY AT MY THUMB AND THEN, ALSO AN ELEPHANT CAME AND SAT ON IT, AND…

Well. It just really stung, y’all. It hurt me. THE SHEETS WERE OUT TO GET ME.

And so of course also the laundry room was all “HA HAHA! I am gonna make this now into a totally horrible situation!” and all the hanging clothes managed to come crashing down (ok, one shirt) at my feet and when I bent over to pick it up, I POKED MY BUTT ON THE CUTE HANGING PEGS THAT I HAVE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM BECAUSE PINTEREST TOLD ME HANGING PEGS IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM WERE A GOOD IDEA BUT NOTHING CUTE EVER HANGS ON THEM BECAUSE THERE’S NO ROOM BECAUSE OUR LAUNDRY ROOM IS LIKE THE MIND OF A TROUBLED PERSON IN THE ASYLUM.

Notice the creeping up of the all-caps, eh? Oh yea. Just wait.

So, I basically gave myself a proctology exam with the stupid Pinteresty pegs of death and then, when standing, I got a head rush and I felt old. Bending over, y’all. It’s not for old people. We might bend over and never get back up.

So, THEN I decided that I HATED everything, and my thumb HURT and I can’t even begin about my backside, and of course my dog was trying to into the laundry room because he’s like Lassie only stupid, and could hear me bellowing and was all, “Wait! Lemme in there! If I come in there I can pant on you and rub my nervous self all up and down your legs because that will HELP I KNOW IT, I CAN DO THIS THERAPY DOG THING, I PROMISE. JUST BELIEVE IN MEEEEEEEE.” And now the whole thing was all about HIM and he doesn’t even have a degree in therapy dog. We just watched a couple of youtube videos together and I nudged him a couple of times and pointed to the tv and said things like, “See? That’s what you could do if you really applied yourself,” and he would quiver and nod, and then go lick himself in inappropriate areas.

So, Mr. Lickie is all up in my business and my thumb is hurting and the sheets are all piled on the floor which is dirty so now I have wet and dirty just-washed really heavy sheets and then:

(deep breath) MY HAIR GETS SNAGGED ON ONE OF THE DANG HANGERS BECAUSE CLEARLY THIS LAUNDRY ROOM IS POSSESSED and once that gets all dealt with some of it (my hair) also sticks in my lip gloss which is SO ANNOYING. Just… SO annoying. It was like the pain of tens thousand arrows but not really painful. So, it was like the annoyance of ten thousand arrows, landing softly on my shiny lips and just sticking there.

Let me just state, if you don’t get the deal with hair getting stuck in lip gloss, you don’t know. YOU DON’T KNOW. IT’S UP THERE WITH PAPER CUTS AND THEN CUTTING A LIME LATER IN THE DAY AND FORGETTING YOU HAD A PAPER CUT WHICH IS, AS YOU KNOW, LIKE A THOUSAND ARROWS…

Well, you get the idea.

And THEN, as I smushed all the sheets, muttering and deciding this day was just so awful, like South Korea mixed with halitoses with a sprinkling of dentist’s office awful. Just the awfulest of awful, I figured this out, that maybe, it could ONLY be worse if, oh I don’t know, like…

MY WHOLE HOUSE WAS UNDER WATER.

SHEETS AND ALL.

And then, you know, I walked with the laundry basket into the kitchen, and lookie there. I HAD A KITCHEN. And also, there was clothes to put on a BED that I HAD UPSTAIRS.

ALSO, THERE WERE STAIRS THAT WEREN’T UNDER WATER.

And then, the cat came (one of the three billion we own) and pushed himself up by my legs like they do, a furry leg tripper warmer thingie, and I realized

THE CATS DID NOT NEED FLOTATION DEVICES. THEY WERE NOT FLOATING BY ME, YOWLING, IN SHRUNKEN WET-CAT DESPAIR. ALL CATS WERE DRY AND WALKING ON THE DRYNESS.

Also, you know what? I COULD TURN ON WATER FROM THIS THING CALLED A FAUCET AND THEN DRINK IT. RIGHT THERE. I could even use a glass.

And don’t even get me started on the toilet and it’s many convenience factors.

So, IN SUM:

No cats were floating by.

I have warm sheets.

My mom is still buying me stuff.

AND MY HOUSE IS NOT UNDER WATER.

 

THE END.

Revised title of this post:

The Sheets Hit the Fan. You know. THE ONE PLUGGED INTO THE WALL THAT STILL WORKS BECAUSE ELECTRICITY.

Please, pray for Houston. But don’t JUST pray. Also, DO something. Reach out. Donate. Give time. Give hope. Harvey is an a$$hole.

 

Don’t know where to start? Here is a good website that offers some ideas:

http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/08/28/546745827/looking-to-help-those-affected-by-harvey-here-s-a-list