Oh, I guess I could write about how we've decided to sell our house and I've gone completely batshit crazy. See how I am already swearing more? You should hear me around the house. All of the filters are gone. We have a terrific house - I love it, I really do. But when you are going to list the house, you have to do a few things:
- Clean like you haven't cleaned in four years.
- Take down Nancy Reagan-era wallpaper in bathroom that someone attached to the wall with Crazy Glue while on heroin.
- Make it look like no children have lived there.
- Make sure the dog hasn't puked anywhere.
- Stop actually living in the house.
- Hide your taxidermied squirrel. (Sorry Todd.)
Sign me up.
This is where I thought the Don't Do Drugs people sort of messed up, because I know a lot of moms who would be thrilled to be able to stay up all night cleaning the floors with a toothbrush, be all skinny in their skivvies, and have the cleanest house on the block. Know your target audience, drug people. You are actually enticing us into drug addiction. And my face already looks like that and I'm itching all over from my second outbreak of poison sumac, so your endless scratching doesn't frighten me, Drug Mom.
We spent Father's Day trimming hedges, moving six cubic yards of mulch, scraping the aforementioned wallpaper, and painting a room. When I was in the shower to scrub away the pollen and inevitable poison sumac I probably lunged into again in the bushes, my thumb started throbbing and turning purple. Grabbing the washcloth was the last straw for my thumb, and I apparently broke a blood vessel. This is unfortunate for my thumb, because the wallpaper stripping and painting is not done. A male in my home whom I will not refer to as CH because I am not writing about him wanted to know if I am icing my thumb. Oh, absolutely. I have a large ice pack strapped to my thumb whilst blogging, scraping, preparing dinner, painting, or paying my meth dealer. Because that is something moms do...they take care of themselves first and let the important things fall by the wayside.
And I am the Princess of Sweden, living a life of anonymity and solitude in the quaint Midwest, savoring the ordinary life of a middle-class housewife, with my talking taxidermied squirrel and my magical unicorn, all biding our time until the beanstalk grows large enough that we can all climb back home.
It is midnight, gentle readers, and this means my Smirnoff Green Apple has turned into a wallpaper scraper and my gown has become a ratty tank top and some cut-off khakis. Back to Nancy Reagan wallpaper, which will inevitably whisper "Just Say No" while I am thinking about the skinny chick in the panties cleaning her immaculate bathroom. Well played, Nancy Reagan. Well played.