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

 

 

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Terrible No Good Very Bad Day. With Whining.

Brace yourselves. Today is for whining.

This post is all:

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WHOA THERE MOMSIE. DIAL IT BACK. NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THAT.

Ok, I promise you, I am not at “Whining Anakin.” And, yes, did you know? The internets is just this fabulous. All I had to do was google “whining anakin” and up popped sixty majillion pictures because EVERYONE HATES HIM.

(This is a terrible tangent, I know, but it’s therapy. Thank you. And please don’t go.)

All right. Here goes. The other day I posted a couple vids on my facebook page of our road trip home. It was fluffy stuff. The husband was singing some song from the 70’s and I was bored bored bored, so, as most people do when they’re bored: I posted stuff on facebook. It’s what we do. We can’t help it.

It seems, also, that people cannot help posting mean comments.

Oh, trolls. I was so not ready for you.

So far, on my beloved Momsie I have not had many issues with the Trolling Ones.

Here’s the deal. The vid is not really all that … flattering of me. Did you know? I am not all that gorgeous when sitting in a car for 6 hours surrounded by junk food and wrappers and 70’s music and highway?

And also this: I am just not all that gorgeous. Boom. It’s true. I don’t mind. I like my face. I think I am in the “Cute and Loveable” level of face- appearance and that’s cool. I don’t really try to be Hot any more, by any standards because who has time for that crap? And also, my husband still calls me his “widdle freshums” which, honestly? I have no idea what that means but it seems kinda flirty so I’ll take it.

I have chins. Most people have just one. I have multiples. It’s like twins. With chins.

Doubly blessed, then?

I have HAD these chins since I was minus one year old. Back then, at baby-hood, the chins thing? So not a problem. Let me show you:

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Now, if that’s not a widdle freshums I don’t know.

But guys, the chins are still there. And even at my teensiest weight (read: before wedding, must fit in dress weight) I had them. And, really? The only way to get rid of ’em would be to SUCK THEM RIGHT OUTTA MAH FACE AND DONT YOU KNOW IT I HAVE RESEARCHED THIS.

You can even see it in the videos. At one point I am holding my chin with my hand (and yes, the angle was awful. What have selfies taught us, people? Shoot from above! Shoot from ABOVE! Any sniper will tell you that!

No. No chin-suckage will happen in this post, I promise you. And neither will it ever happen in my life because EW and also CRACKAMILLION DOLLARS.

So, my chins and my HUGE FRECKLES (read: sun spots) are a part of me. We’re buddies. We’re LITERALLY stuck with each other. So anyone who has to comment on that is kinda… well, stating the obvious, right? Which means… you are kind of dumb or mean or both.

There. I said it.

I know everyone is all frazzled up about gorillas right now. A week ago it was bathrooms and prior to that Starbucks cups and etc. And damn people, could we all just relax? I think perhaps the internet has spawned a great big fat, multiple chinned monster in a lot of folk: the I WILL JUDGE WITH MY TYPING folk.

Anyhow. I was so whiney about it earlier, the trolls who came and puked all over my page. But now? I’m kind of glad. It at least gives me a moment to realize this:

It could be worse. At least, if I really wanted to, I could suck my chins right outta there.

But you can’t suck away mean and dumb.  That crap holds on.

Good luck with that.

Phew! Whining done, and thank you for listening. Carry on with your day.

Oh, and always remember:

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Yes, dear.

Linking up today with Heading Home today for Five Minute Fridays!

Today’s theme:

 

DEAR.

 

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It’s our second week of marriage. Brian and I are still in that blissfully unaware state of unfettered love and devotion that is honeymooning all over the place.

I am still in bed – the summer is still lulling about and I don’t have to go to work because I’m a teacher. I yawn. I stretch. I might unpack today. Or go to the bookstore. Or go for a run.

Life is good.

Brian, however, is getting ready to leave for his job. He’s in khaki pants and is wearing aftershave and an air of professionalism. He is pouring coffee. I am slipping back into sleep.

Then, he asks, “You want some coffee?” I don’t hear him because I’m cocooned in my blankets and lethargy. Brian, persistent, asks again, “Would you like some coffee?”

*snore*

“DEAR WOULD YOU LIKE SOME COFFEE?”

I have been rattled out of my blissful dreams and blink. Someone is yelling at me and it’s seven a.m. This is new.

Oh! Marriage. I blink again.

Brian, really really interested in making sure I get some caffeine, now bellows, “COFFEE? YOU WANT?”

And, I, annoyed, bellow back:

“YES. OK! ALL RIGHT! JEEZ. PUT SOME SUGAR IN IT BECAUSE I LIKE IT SWEEEEET!” This last part was a bit of a screech, like a grumpy macaw was in the bedroom, placing her order.

It is important to note here that when he brought it to me, I didn’t look very sweet. I looked all crumpled, and sleepy, and ticked.

Oh, marriage.

I take a sip and wrinkle my delicate nose. “This doesn’t have creamer. I like creamer in my coffee.”

Brian blinks.

At this point he has a crucial decision. He can tell me to put the coffee where the sun don’t shine, which would be all sorts of painful but probably rather deserved,

Or he can go for option B. Niceness.

Because, marriage.

He picks B and answers with a phrase I hear quite a lot in our years together:

“Yes, dear.”

As I sat back and waited for my coffee (which, when handed to me the second time was paired with a huge grin and so much creamer it was, um, just white), I wondered at it. I was being petulant and demanding, and I got a totally unexpected response. Quiet kindness.

This was rather new.

We tell each other, “Yes, dear” all the time. We say it when it’s hard, or when we are smiling, or when we are aflame with anger. We even say it when it’s drippy with sarcasm. But we still say it. And it always does the trick.

“Yes, dear” works. Why? Because we’re simple folk. We like to be reminded, even when annoyed or distracted or just plain mad, that we are precious to each other. That we chose each other.

That we hold each other, dear.

He is my darling, after all. And I am his. Even though he knows to maybe not talk to me too much in the morning before coffee.

Because, marriage.

Ephesians 4:31-32, ya’ll. It’s a good one.

 

 A-happy-marriage

 

S = Snark Attack!

tiger_shark_2012_by_feeves-d5b9lyhSo… last Sunday my women’s Sunday school class wanted me to make a Pact with them.  I love Pacts.  They keep it real.  And they add a degree of suspense to my day that otherwise would be, you know, laundry and Connect Four.  Pacts are all Survivor-y and Hunger Games-ish.  I like to dial-up my inner Katniss.  So I was all, I’m IN!  The odds are ever in my favor!  And I look so CUTE in a side hair braid anyhow!Katniss-Everdeen-the-hunger-games-fan-club-30601998-530-725

But. I digress.

Here’s the Pact:  We would not say anything negative TO or ABOUT our husbands for an entire week.

I’m already trying to test the fine print on this one.

It’s just…  he’s cute.  And as far as easy prey goes?  He’s a baby turtle buffet.  I love, LOVE teasing the man.  Just adore it.  It is the wind beneath my wings, the Snark attack.  It gives me such great joy.  I KNOW Jesus would understand.  I mean, really, He SAYS we are to choose joy, right? That’s in the bible somewhere*.  Right?  And Snark is my love language.

Sigh. Perhaps I have gone on enough about levels of Snark of which I am capable.   It makes me sound… callous and uncaring.

Nah, I got more.

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In this picture my husband is clearly indicating his love and devotion and patience. And, that he might qualify as a hipster.

I was thinking about how we operate, we Snarkalots.  We circle in.  We do a lot of side eye-ing.  We wait for it…  and then, BAM!  We find fresh meat.

Generally speaking, Snark attacks work best in packs.  (A pack of Snarks is called a Snack, by the way.)   Snarking alone?  Possible, but not as…  satisfying.

For those of you gentle souls who are on the baby turtle side of life, the following is a helpful tool for keeping the Snarks at bay.  With Snarks, sometimes the best bet is simply:  Don’t go in the water.  Stay away.

The hubs is really good at this.  He simply smiles, and wanders off whenever the Snark fin appears.  He then settles down on his beach (couch) with lots of sports, ESPN, and some chips, and in all his affable detachment he just doesn’t even let me BITE.  Maddening.  But smart.  Snark repellant.

Momsie’s Dictionary of Snark Terminology:

There’s a Snark in the water:  The ominous Snark music is cued, and one should start heading for dry ground.

Bull snark:  The snark is recognized as being very very full of poop. Note:  This does not deter the Snark.  Of course.

Snarknado:  When other Snarks join in, and it’s a frenzy of Snarkism.     It’s more fun this way.  See also:  Marital Discord.

Snark Tank:  An attempt at Snark that just… fails.  As in, hits bottom.  Sinks.  Goes belly up.  Note:  This does not deter the Snark.  Of course.  A Snark’s gotta keep moving.

Snark Week:  Generally this week is fueled and fed by crazy hormones.  It is best not to speak of this week.  It’s too graphic.

Great White Snark:  Snark’s first appearance at the pool.  Other snark mommies show up. It’s paleness all around.  See also:  Pool Snark.

Pool Snark: a special breed of Snark that wears the “Mom suit,”  lots of SPF 50, and downtime.  Snark usually increases exponentially at the pool due to heat and glare. It’s easier to Snark behind gigantic, dark sunglasses.

Killer snark:  You know when you really are SPOT on with some snark and it just is sooooo perfect?  The zinger?  The APEX of snark?  Note:  Can have harmful side effects on marital relations.  See Jumping the Snark.  and Marital Discord.  Again.

Basking snark:  Summer Snark is finding her tan.  Also: A Killer Snark just surfaced and Snark Momsie is basking in the glow.

Jumping the Snark:  Snarking has gone too far.  The end is near.  Your relationship with your husband (main Snark recipient) has decided to cancel your show.

CLAWS:  70’s blockbuster about a snark with a particularly evil set of claws.  And yes, I know we’re mixing metaphors here but stay with me.CBM001_i_can_has_cheezburger_magnet_madison_park_group_funny_lol_sarcasm_sarkasm_just_another_service_i_offer_cat_kitteh__57961.1336510338.1200.1200

And finally…

“We’re gonna need a bigger gloat”:  The Snark has become so full of herself that she uses movie quotes to savor the moment.  See Basking Snark.  And also:  Marital Counseling .

 

After all this, there is really only one final term that any good Snark needs to know:

Remorsa:  Uh, this one kinda speaks for itself.

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Sorry sorry sorry… I love youuuuuuuuu.

*The Momsie Bible maybe…  the Newly Organized and Paraphrased Edition ( or  the NOPE ) is my go-to bible for highly doctored, often massively inaccurate mutations of verses so I can prove a point or make my life easier.

Oh my friends.  Try to tame your inner Snark.  Or your husband will eventually start acting like this guy:

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Cranky.

Of course, I have to leave you with this:

You’re welcome.