Good and Bad

So, I have some Wonderful news. In fact it's just so exciting I don't know where to begin. It's pretty much the greatest thing that has happened to me in ... some time. I'm not sure how long. But it's pretty wonderful. Actually, there is a second wonderful news thing that has happened to me also... except I can't really remember it, so I guess I won't share that. Even though it really was wonderful. ...but it also seems that with every little bit of fantabulous news there is some super dreadful news. Which I also have. shame really.

Good news: The sock that was eaten by the dryer was not really eaten by the dryer!! It's true. The hubs found it. After the lonesome sock sat clean on top of the dresser for about a month and a half the hubs said to me, "Hey! Look!" a mile wide grin plastered to his face. He was holding up a wrinkly black sock. dun dun dun. ...the missing sock! In the other hand was a shoe. A shoe the sock had been stuffed into. Apparently. The shoe he supposedly wore the day he had the socks on. For some reason the hubs likes to stuff his socks in his shoes when he is done wearing them. I guess that's as good a place as any... unless of course it is the dirty clothes basket. Which I think might be better, but maybe I just don't know. Maybe shoes are an even better place to put your dirty socks. What I want to know is why only one sock made it out of the shoe. Why not both? It's a mystery. ...But you know, I really can't say much. the missing sock was found. The dryer did not eat it. thankfully. I can still say our dryer has not eaten any of our socks. And now that I just said that, I'm pretty sure when I wash laundry next I will only have one of each sock. but you know, that's the way it works.

I remembered the other good thing I forgot. O wait, no. scratch that. I forgot it again. Well, whatever it was it was really super exciting. really, it was.

The poopy news is that some lady lied to me. I hate liars. Really. Just don't do it. Number one, it's just wrong. Number two, it's just not nice. Number four, it can lead to sad sad things. Like what I'm about to tell you. O, it's really quite dreadful really. So, remember Evil Saturday? Well, there is going to be a second Evil Saturday. Evil Saturday II. O. Good. Grief. I thought I was done with that crap. Nope. I knew it was too good to be true. I found out after talking with a few people and after a little comment about a personal Evil Saturday experience, that I might, just might, have to take a second test. It's true. Well, I looked and researched and I just didn't know what to do... When I was pretty sure I would have to take a second evil test, I called the school I go to, again, and asked them, again. I explained the entire situation. I said, "You know, I talked to this one lady and asked her what test (tests) I needed to take and she told me, 0059, (or some such something). I asked her, if that was all I had to take. I wanted to make sure I didn't register and take the wrong test and she said yes, yes it was. She assured me that was the only test I needed to sign up for and take. But I'm a little afraid that she lied to me. I would have taken the second test on the same day had I known. I just took it. Do I really have to take another? I just wish you weren't liars." Really, it's true. I said that. Word for word. I was secretly hoping that she would say I wouldn't have to, but I secretly knew she would say I needed to take a second test. She did. I do. bad. bad. bad. bad. o. how I loathe these tests. bother.

Good news: I got to see mums and dad the other day.

Bad news: they left me the next day.

Good news: I have a cute puppy, especially when he sleeps (though everything, and I mean everything is cute when they are sleeping)

Bad news: sometimes he sinks his little teeth into my skin and it hurts. a lot.

Good news: I made Frog Eye Salad.

Bad news: I have no one to share it with. shame.

Good news: it's almost the weekend! : )

Evil Saturday

Two trips to the store, one box of tissues, two boxes of cold medicine (one for night and one for day- obviously), ten pencils, and one pencil sharpener later I was ready. For bed. It's true. I suppose most people might brush their teeth (at least I would hope), comb their hair, floss (but really, who flosses every night? I mean, I sure don't... unless you're my mum reading this, in which case I floss every single night before bed, yup : ), gargle some mouth wash, take your contacts out (unless you have perfect eyes, in which case, you're not my friend), and possibly take a shower (unless you shower in the morning in which case you wouldn't), climb under the covers, and turn out the lights. I suppose, that is a typical night of getting ready. I mean, most people do that before bed, right? Right. Really, I suppose I did all of that too... but I wasn't even ready to get ready for bed until I was ready with my ten freshly sharpened pencils.

It was Friday night, I had to be across town and at a test center to take the evil teacher test by 7:30. 7:30 on a Saturday morning. Now that is an abomination. For real. Since I have the bestest hubs in the whole wide world, he sweetly took me to my doom. And when I was not ready to leave his side he pushed me out of the car (though he did say a prayer with me first) armed with half a box worth of tissues, and went away to enjoy the rest of his morning (i.e. sleep). I on the other hand had to take a test.

The first part I thought would be simple enough, go inside the building, and tell them I am there. Thankfully there were a bunch of ladies out in the hallway eager to help. I told them I was there and asked what I needed to do. They said, "Find your name!" ok. Find my name. I wasn't really expecting to find my name on a folder before the praxis or anything, but since they insisted, I looked for my name. Nope. No me listed. huh. I tell them I am missing, they ask me to wait. After about an hour of twiddling my thumbs and trying to whistle, two other girls start looking for their names. They are missing too. At least I'm not the only one. Then the nice helpful ladies ask if we want credit for this and what school we go to. I was pretty sure all I had to do was bring my license, I didn't know I was getting credit to take the test. Turns out, I wasn't. Unthankfully, I was in the wrong spot. Thankfully the two girls knew exactly where the nice helpful ladies told us to go. So I followed them. Up the stairs, through the hallways, pass dozens of doors. Until I see it. The line. The door of doom. The room in which my fate will be determined. I think I am going to be sick. O wait, I'm already sick. Never mind.

So I wait in line. Praying and praying for calm nerves. Good gracious. I Hate taking tests, especially this kind. The kind where you can study for weeks and months and years and still fail. The kind where someone who never studied at all can get a higher score then you can even though you studied for six months. The kind that are unpredictable. The kind that you have to pass if you want to be what you have been working towards for your entire life (or for year). The kind you have to have lots of sharpened number 2 pencils for. The kind you have to read questions and fill in bubbles for. The Evil kind of test.

They let me in (thankfully?) and I sit down. It's 7:34 on Saturday morning. I am sick. I cannot breathe. My nose is stuffy. My throat is burning. My eyes are itchy. I pull out my pile of tissues and lay them on my desk. Before the tests even starts I have a quarter less than what I started with. Long 2 hours. I pray for a clear head (i.e. no stuffiness). And start filling in my bubbles.

You know, I read many different instructions and guidelines for this test. Every single thing I read said, "No Phones Allowed" and if you did have a phone, and if it did go off while you were taking the test, you were disqualified, you had to call your school and cancel your scores, and then sign up to take it again. Well, about half way through the test a phone beeps. My face goes white. Or red. I'm not really sure. There wasn't a mirror there for me to look into to see what color my face was, either way, it was not its regular color. And when I say face I mean face, not nose because my nose was already bright tomato red... even though I was using the Puffs Plus Lotion tissues. They are the only tissues I trust my nose to. They are the softest and the thickest. They are the best tissues out there. I would know. I have used every single brand of facial tissues and toilet tissues out there. You could probably say I go through at least one box of tissues (the big family size boxes) in a month. By myself. I've set a new record (maybe): in a week I have gone though two whole family size tissue boxes. Now that's a lot of snot.

So, the phone beeps (more like chimes really). Just once. The two test administrators stand to their feet, prowling the room like lions about to pounce, not wanting to give away their presence. They are also somehow able to hover like vultures about to go in for the dead toast. I'm trying so hard to concentrate, but all I can think about is how the phone sounded and I knew it was close to me. I read the same question ten times before realizing I had already read it. I just could not concentrate. No wonder they tell you not to bring any phones in. They are plain old distracting. They never found out whose phone went off and went back to their seats.

I breeze through the rest of the test (well, you know, kind of, sort of, but not really) and when there are only 30 minutes left a phone rings again! Ah! Stupid people! You are Killing me! And this phone is sitting right in front of me. And I mean right in front of me. The girl bends over and rustles in her purse to find and silence her phone. Too late. She's been caught. Test Lady comes over and quietly says to her, "I'm sorry, you're going to have to call your school and have them cancel your scores." She takes Phone Girl's test booklet and answer page off her desk and gives it to Test Man who quickly goes to work writing Void all over it (or something like that, I couldn't really get a good look from where I was sitting). Ten minutes go by and Phone Girls' phone rings AGAIN!!!! Are you kidding me?! I mean really?! You didn't turn your phone off after the first time it rang?! What an idiot! So, again, I am distracted for ten minutes on the phone situation instead of the essay task at hand. Not a good time to get distracted. Not at all. The whole time I was sitting there worrying that my phone was going to go off and that my test would be ripped up and I would have to pay again and take it again. Not a pleasant thought. And even though I knew it was sitting in the car with the hubs, I couldn't help but think it had somehow found it's way into the room and was lurking near me waiting to go off. Even though 1. no one Ever calls me. b. it's early on a Saturday morning. 4. No one ever calls me on a Saturday morning. .... oh, but this would be my lucky day. The day when Everyone in my entire phone book would think, "Huh, you know, I Never call Cupcake, I ought to give her a ring, even though it is not even 9 on a Saturday morning I'm sure she won't mind..." it's true it would happen to me. Thankfully my phone does not have legs and it did not follow me into the test room and my test was not torn to shreds.

Thankfully the test is over. Thankfully I had one tissue left to spare at the end of it. Unthankfully I have to wait for a month before I can find out if I failed it. o my. I really hope and pray that I didn't.

the mourners

This weekend, the hubs and I got a puppy. It's true. We did. And I love him dearly. It's pretty much impossible to not love him. I even loved him after he peed on my carpet... even though we had stood outside with him for 45 minutes.

Like I said, it's pretty impossible to not love him. See? Told ya. Anyway...

We do not have a cat, but a cat claims us. He comes around all the time, scratching at our back door for us to let him in, or to feed him. (At this point you are probably thinking, "Why would she say that she got a puppy if she is talking about a cat? Crazy!" Well, let me finish....) I really think that if he was a little bit taller (longer) he would be able to open the back door (even though he only has paws and it would be really really difficult, he would figure out a way to get it open). After a few days of his constant coming around we dubbed him, Horatio. Every morning he comes around tapping on the back door. You would think by now I would not jump out of my socks when I hear a sound at the back door in the morning. But that's not the case. Every morning comes and begs for food and every morning I jump out of my slippers when I hear him. Thank goodness I know his eyes are yellow and people are not that short. Well, he begs and begs for food. Not that he needs any. Horatio is the fattest cat I've ever seen in the world. Well, maybe not the absolute fattest, I've seen a few cats that were maybe 110 pounds as opposed to his 108 pounds. But still, you get the idea. he is a fat cat.

One of my favorite things to do is watch him sprint across the yard to our door. After I open the curtains in the morning, I see him in the far off corner of the yard. I'm convinced he has super hearing powers or something because every single time I open the curtain he points his head up and dashes as quick as he can to our door. As he runs for the door his belly drags across the ground, I've never seen a cats belly drag on the ground before. That's how fat he is. Horatio comes to the door as though he is absolutely famished. He is not. When he gets to the door I promptly do not feed him. Yet for some reason he lounges on our back porch all day long. Waiting to be fed. Ridiculous. Then one morning I actually did give him some food, he nibbled at it. Then when the nice neighbor lady that always feeds him came outside he deserted me and ran to her. Was my food not good enough for him? Apparently not. He is one picky cat. I figured, if he was hungry he would eat whatever. He's apparently not that hungry. Unless of course nice neighbor lady is gone for a week, then Horatio will eat anything and everything we give him. gracious.

Well. One afternoon, a day or two after bringing Boady home the hubs was outside with him. For some reason the hubs had to leave and asked me to step outside. For a split second we were both inside at the same time. When I went out to watch Boady, I couldn't see him. I looked and looked, but he wasn't there. That's when I saw Horatio. With a little brown critter hanging limp from him mouth. My heart stopped. I started running towards Horatio, calling and scolding and scared from little Boady's life. Then I saw it had a big bushy tail. And Boady barked up at me, he was right by my foot. O thank goodness. For the next twenty minutes Horatio batted and swung that squirrel around. Today the hubs found a head and a tail. nice. While Horatio batted the poor little critter around, the squirrels in the trees all around me were screaming, "EEEE" and "ekkekkkekkk" and "eeek eeek" more and more squirrels kept joining in. Personally, I was getting a little scared for my life. I was pretty certain the squirrels would come and attack me for something the cat did. o brother. ... I've never heard squirrels mourn before, but they do. It's true. And now there is a tail in my yard. Thanks, Horatio.

a-ller-gic

I'm ill. horribly horribly ill. It's really quite wretched actually. My nose is stuffed up. My head is stuffed up. My throat is itchy. My ears hurt. My cheeks are in pain. My eyes are itchy and watery. I wasn't sick last week. And then I went there to the building full of germs, the place where my allergies come alive. School. Stupid school. contagious kids. evil kicker-upper of allergies. Cause that's what they do. That's what happens. They make me sick. It never fails. Never. Ever. All I have to do is be near a child and I get sick. All I have to do is walk into a room full of children and I'm a goner, I get a stuffy head and am pretty much useless. It's tragic really. I have diagnosed myself as being allergic to kids.

I babysat this little baby boy once (well, actually he was not so little, he was really pretty chubby) for a day. one day. He had Hand Foot and Mouth Disease (yuck), a disease that grown ups don't get. Well, guess who got Hand Foot and Mouth Disease? That's right! You guessed it! Me! I got Hand Foot and Mouth Disease. dumb baby. Why?! Why did I get it when grown ups don't get it?! huh? tell me that? What makes me so special that I would get this vile illness? huh? Well, thanks to this chubby little baby I spent a week and a half with a mouth full of tiny little bumps. It was like I had eaten poison ivy my mouth was so bumpy. I could hardly brush my teeth it was so painful. There was no way I was about to floss. Mouthwash? Forget about it. It's bad enough when you have an uninfected mouth. Eating was impossible... I just couldn't eat. anything. At all. For two whole weeks. I'm not even kidding. That's a long time to go without food.

Obviously I have chosen the wrong profession. How can I possibly be around kids every day when I am deathly allergic to them? o brother. It is so true though. I'm telling you, ever since I started subbing last week it's been horrid. I can hardly breathe. I hate to tell the secretaries that I can't come in and sub because I'm allergic to the kids though. So I suck it up and go in anyway. Only worsening my allergies. I don't know what is the better thing to do.

The hubs says, "It might not be the kids you're allergic to. It could be a new season, I know my allergies are really bad right now too."

"I'm pretty sure it's the kids, it's like this no matter the season," I say certainly. That's why I haven't been able to even check my email for the past few days: the kids have made me ill. I've been trying to get a doctor to confirm my diagnoses. They won't. Thankfully, at least I know the truth. I guess I better start taking allergy medicine. dumb kids. dumb allergies. bah.

physical education

Yesterday I was a P.E. teacher. I called and told the hubs, "Guess what?!"

"You are going to fix lunch?" he questions.

"I got a sub job!" Of course I would only be excited about this. Subbing it pretty much the best thing ever. ...or maybe not. But still. I never turn down a sub job.

"That's great! Do you know what you will be teaching?" He's so swell.

"Elementary P.E." I state matter of factually.

"Wait, could you repeat that? It sounded like you said, P.E."

"I did. I'm teaching P.E. today."

"BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA," I'm glad he's so easily amused. Actually, if you know me, which you might, or you might not, you would know why the hubs was laughing so hard. I am the least athletic person on the face of this earth. I hate running and jogging and if I can avoid walking somewhere, I will (ok. well, that might not all be entirely true...). Well, you know, unless I really want to. Be active. Which really rarely Ever happens. Ever. Pretty much never. My least favorite subject in school was not Math (even though I loath the very idea of it) but P.E. That was ten thousands time worse than math. I'd rather pull my hair out of my head trying to figure out a dumb math problem than put on a pair of tennis shoes and run one lap. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" the laughter continues. "Oh, man. That's hillarious."

Really? I couldn't tell he thought so.

P.E. is a good thing to sub for though. I make children run : ) It is glorious. Then they come up to you all sweaty and I can't help but laugh an evil laugh inside. But seriously, it's good. I make them run. They are allowed to be loud so I don't have to keep telling them to hush. It's nice.

I subbed today too. But it wasn't P.E. But I did make them hush. It was glorious. I even brought tears to a few children's eyes. I'm not mean, really I'm not. In fact, I'm really quite nice, and I'm sure that the kids take advantage of me more than I make them cry. I'm trying to change that though. And that is why a little girl cried. Almost. kehehe. o my. Now you probably think I am the most cruel person ever in the world. But I'm not. I can reassure you of that. I'm a Baby Whisperer (or so I've been told) I can take a screaming baby, hold him (or her) and she stops. And most of the time they usually fall asleep in my arms too. It's quite nice really. So, if I make babies stop crying, I really can't be that mean, now can I?

going to the dentist

People tend to dislike the dentist for some crazy reason. Personally, I enjoy going to the dentist. That's not because I've never had a cavity in my whole long life either. I've had more than I care to share. In fact one time I had a dentist tell me I had 23 cavities. She was crazy. Just a little bit. I don't go to her any more. I've also had a ridiculously large one that was pretty unpleasant. When I saw a little chunk of tooth in my hand I about lost it. I called the dentist and informed them I needed to come in. I had an emergency. It really was an Emergency, thank you very much, and I needed to get my tooth fixed before I have to have a root canal! Thankfully they got me a spot right away. Unthankfully, the next day when I was in the dentist (after I had explained to them over the phone that I needed the cavity filled asap and I knew it was a big one and I knew it would take a long time... after they reasured me they could fix it the dext day, no problem) they only cleaned my teeth. nice. Then the dentist came in and poked and prodded around in my mouth with her sharp and shiny metal picks and drills for about two hours. After which she promptly informed me that my cavity was far too large for her to fill that day and she didn't have time. Naturally the first thing I said to her (with a mouth full of cotton swabs and fluoride and little plastic blocks) was, "Waff?! Arf yoff srioffs?! ... yoff safd... my toof!! Af cenf coom baff. " She looks at me like I'm a child and nods her head with a smile on it. As though she's agreeing with me. As if I was saying something nice to her. I don't know why she didn't answer my question. I have never spoken with more clarity in my life. o brother.

So they made another appointment for me. So I had to take off another day of work and go in again to have my tooth fixed. Good gravy. Unfortunately (again) for me the dental assistant that was helping her on this particular day... on this particular mouth (mine!) was new. Completely. Now, I know you have to start somewhere, but really. It wasn't the day, the time, the mouth, or the tooth to start on. No. No. No. For starters, she couldn't find the right spot in my mouth to give me the mouth numbing shot. So, instead of only getting two shots like I was supposed to, I got seven. five from her and two from an experienced assistant who immediately said, "What are you doing?!" when she saw what New Girl was doing. Not the words you want to hear when people are stabbing you with needles and injecting the numbing medicine in your gums. After which she fixed the situation right away. But then... she left me with New Girl again! New Girl was told to put the big fat rubberish block thingys in the back of my mouth. She put it in my throat. Excuse me. I need to breathe! After an hour of her shoving and cramming things in my mouth she smiles, satisfied with her work. I'm not smiling. Then comes the tricky part. The part where she about suffocates me. She shoves something else in my mouth! It has this big circle thing that sticks out so they can see better (I guess. Who knows what it's Really for). After she gets that in (and after breaking a tooth) she attaches a blue rubber bit to the outside of it. She asks me if I'm comfortable. "Wf uf fing?" I manage to say. She adjusts the blue rubber cloth thingy. It ends up covering my nose. I cannot breathe. I mean, literally. I cannot breathe. I was using my nostrils for that since she had so unkindly blocked the airways in my mouth. And I'm not about to try to move it with my hands as I have no idea what's going on up there and I really do not want to mess it up for her to have to redo. No thank you. So I begin to suffocate. Thank goodness the dentist came in after she finished. I think I've never been more relieved to see the dentist (even the crazy one) actually. This is what she says to New Girl, listen: "Oh No!!! You can't do that!!" Definitely Not what you want to hear your dentist say. Told you I was right about that blue thingy being in the wrong spot. sheesh... As the dentist is reprimanding New Girl she is saving my life by adjusting the blue rubber cloth. "fafs," I smile gratefully at her. Truly grateful.

After that there was just lots of pressure. But thankfully my mouth was entirely numb (thanks to the seven shots I was given). Unfortunately 20 minutes later I had to teach the lesson at school because the teacher went home sick. O well. I only bit my tongue about ten thousand times. I think.

But still, I like a little visit to the dentist every now and again. Call me crazy. I like how my teeth feel pretty and pearly and shiny and white afterwards. ...All that to say the hubs and I need to go the dentist again. I haven't been in a while and it's been even longer for the hubs. So I called and made an appointment.

After I made the appointment I had to register to take the teacher test. I signed up for the soonest test date. Which happened to be the day after the appointment. Which wouldn't be too bad except we are driving a few hours to get to this particular dentist (I'm not going to a new one again until I absolutely must and I'm not going back to the crazy dentist). Because of this I called to reschedule the dentist appointment. I didn't want to have a sore mouth and be sleepy from the drive the day before the test. Also, I didn't want to spend all that money on gas to just turn around right away.

So I called and changed it. No problem. After about thirty minutes I called right back to make sure both my appointment and the hubs' had been switched (sometimes I'm a little forgetful and also kind of obsessive). Cause it would be bad if they hadn't. The dentist answered the phone. When I asked him to double check he did so delightedly. Everything was in order. Good job me. The hubs asked if I had changed the appointment. "Yes. Yes I did," I told him proudly.

"Well, you're going to have to change it again."

"What?! Why?!" I did not want to call the dentist again.

"I can't go that day."

"O."

"Sorry," I can hear him smiling and even laughing a little bit on the other end of the phone.

"But, really? I just called! I don't want to keep calling and changing the dates!"

"I can call if you really don't want to. What's the number?"

"Oh. Fine. I'll call," I pout. Then find the number for the teeth man and call. Again. When he answers the phone (again) I cheerfully tell him, "It's me again! Sorry, but can we please change the appointment, again? The hubs has a conflict with that day."

Thankfully Teeth Man jokes with me, "Is he causing you trouble?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," I kid back. And thankfully he is able to change the appointment, again.

Tonight we found out we have something else that same weekend. The hubs looked at me and laughed, "You do realize it's the same weekend as our dentist appointment."

"I'M NOT CALLING!!!! I'M NOT CHANGING THE DATE, AGAIN," I playfully shout. And I'm not. I'm not changing it. Not again. We are going to the dentist on that day. Wether we like it or not. so there.

cleaning

The other day the hubs and I were enjoying a nice day of cleaning. I stuck to vacuuming and doing dishes and dusting and mopping and sweeping and scrubbing and disinfecting and tidying up things on the inside of the house. That's what I know how to do. The hubs went outside and did the manly things that only he knows how to do. For example he made some concoction of water and soap and something else... o, right, bleach and set to scrubbing the north side of our mossy house. Interesting that it was only that side that needed scrubbing, huh? Well, I know the reason why. I also happen to know a little bit of interesting information about that too. If you really want to know, I will share with you... even though you probably won't care. I'll tell myself that you really do to make me feel good about knowing one thing or another. Anyway. Moss only grows on the North side of things. Trees in particular. You know, that's how the underground slaves found their way North when they were running for their freedom? At least that's what my great great great great aunt told me. It's true. They felt for the moss on the side of the trees at night when it was dark because they couldn't see. When they felt the moss they knew they were going in the right direction. I highly doubt the North Star helped them at all.

Anyway... the hubs. he was scrubbing and cleaning and spraying down the soapy concoction and well, just keeping things looking nice outside. Thankfully. I wouldn't even know where to start. If he wanted to switch me spots I would look at him like a crazy caterpillar and say, "Uh-uh. Nope." then, if he persisted he mop and sweep inside as opposed to out, and made me do all the yard work, I would probably just stand there with a little shovel hanging loosely in my hand looking at all of the grass and weeds and vines and trees and flowers and everything really and not know what to do. who knows what it would look like if I were in charge of that. Thank goodness I'm not. In charge of that stuff that is.

So, I go inside. And I start my cleaning and such. It starts out fine and dandy and I don't really mind doing it. not terribly. But then, not too long after I begin the troubles start. The first disaster happened like this: I was vacuuming the living room carpet. The carpet is nice enough and new when we moved into the house. However, it is also the cheapest carpet I've ever seen. Every time I vacuum I have to empty the thingy majober that holds all of the dirt and fuzz and other stuff. The carpet is fuzzy. When we first got here if we walked in one place more than another you could see it. Because there would be a big fat pile of carpet fuzz for us to pick up. cheap. but nice. I don't mind emptying the vacuum, except for the fact that it makes me sneeze like a crazy person. As I'm going about my merry way I begin to sniff an unfamiliar smell, but I know it's the smell of... burning something. And it is coming from some where close to me. Strange that the vacuum is making funny sounds too. I turn it off and sit and stare at it for about an hour. Then I give it another go. I turn it on and start again. The smell returns and only stronger this time. Yes. my vacuum is definitely on fire. Carefully I turn it off and unplug it. After which I am still a little scared to touch the thing, I don't want it to blow up in my hand. Though, I suppose if it blew up in my hand it would also blow up my house. Neither are good options to me. I crouch as close as I dare go to the burning machine and see smoke rising from it. That is Definitely Not a good thing. I know it should not do that. Also, the house now smells like fine. wonderful. super. ...though, on the bright side, at least my house is not on fire. That would be a little bit worse. it's true.

I open the door and shout for the hubs. After which I realize he's right next to me. woops. I ask him, "Do you smell that?! Stick your nose in here and tell me what you smell." The hubs looks at me. "Smell!" I say. He sticks his nose inside the door and sniffs to appease me. "Well, what's it smell like in here?" I ask him.

"Bleach."

"Bleach?! Are you crazy?! Bleach?"

"Well, my hands are drenched in bleach at the moment and I have been inhaling it for the past hour, so pretty much every thing smells like bleach to me."

"Oh." shame. "Are you sure that's all you smell?"

"Yup. Sorry." I hang my head and close the door. He continues on his merry way and I wrap the vacuum cord around the thingy and set it in a place where I hope that if it does explode it won't catch the whole house on fire. I go to get the fire extinguisher, just in case. Wait. We don't have one of those. Note to self: buy fire extinguisher in case the vacuum blows up. Good investment.

Welcome disaster number two. I step outside to ask the hubs if he really didn't smell anything fishy inside. He said, "Well, ya. A little burning smell maybe. But just a tiny whiff." Relieved I wasn't loosing my mind or hallucinating I smiled. All the while the hubs continued to scrub our house. Now. You must know that we have some steps you have to walk up to get in our house. They are nice steps and all. On either side of these steps and small porch area is a great bush. It's very strong and seems invincible. literally. It reminds me of a giant spring. Even snow rests on top of it. I've always wanted to jump into the bushes just for fun. To know what would happen. Well, as the hubs keeps brushing and scrubbing, reaching his arm out farther and farther as he goes. Leaning farther and farther over the bush. And then it happens. In slow motion I watch the hubs fall back into the giant green shrub. The leaves and small branches part to make way for him. There is a giant hole. A look of shock across his face. After a minute or two of taking the situation in I reach out my hand and help pull him up out of the shrub. We fluff up the leaves and branches to their regular self and the hubs brushes the little leaves off his shirt.

It happens to the best of us. It's a shame. While it is a little bit of a disaster, it is also kind of rather amusing and I can't help but giggle a little bit about it. He does too. So, maybe not the biggest disaster of the afternoon.

After returning inside I continue sweeping and mopping. I finish mopping the last room. The laundry room, also where I store the mop and bucket and all the cleaning stuff. After rising the mop out in the tub I decide it would be wise to just hang the mop up right then. Not to wait. Some how in all of the two minutes it took to rinse the mop out I completely forgot about having just mopped the room I was about to enter. Welcome disaster number three. I take one step into the freshly mopped laundry room and whoosh! before I know it I am lying on my side, toe jammed against one door post and one knee banged against the other door post. I hold my head and lay still in silence. I can't move. And my toe is throbbing. I look down and it is bright purple. super. Now my toe is broken. again. lovely. just what I wanted. For the rest of the afternoon I hobble around the house as I continue scrubbing and dusting. Later I set something on my leg and it starts to throb. I realize then and there that is where I hit the door. I look and see the biggest bruise on my knee. Double great. One broken toe and one disjointed knee. How will I ever get through the day? good grief. Nothing more can happen. surely.

Oh... but no. something else does happen. The hubs yells for me to bring him a rag... quickly. It sounds urgent. I limp my way around the house and grab a rag for him. As I open the door to hand it to him I see the biggest disaster of all. The windows. Were open. The hubs had sprayed water straight into our living room. The carpet was sopping the couch was drenched the fancy wooden plastic blinds were dripping water. I screamed for hum to stop, but he didn't hear me for the sound of the hose was too great and if I opened the door right then and there I risked flooding the whole entrance. When the water was off I opened the door and threw the rag in his face. Or not. I just threw it really. I didn't care where it landed. I hobbled as quick as I could with a broken toe and knee and grabbed as many towels and rags as I could find. I spent the remaining ten hours of my day carefully wiping up the blinds and carpet and couches. good gracious.

Thankfully at the end of the day things were mostly dried and the blinds looked sparkling clean. In fact, it was the first time I had even touched the blinds (to clean that is). I probably would have left them till we moved from this house in 90 years. So, I'm sure it's a good thing the water was sprayed into the house. yes. yes. I'm sure of it.

I will have to say one thing. That was probably one of the most eventful cleaning days I have ever had. First the vacuum blows up. Then the hubs falls and breaks his neck in the pretty bushes outside our door. Then I break my little toe and knee (of course they would be on different legs, being on the same would make it too easy for me). Then our house is flooded.

oh my. what a day. what a day.

favorites

There are few things I own that I absolutely love. I might even go so far as to say they are a favorite. Actually, yes. I will go that far. I do have a few favorite things. There are a few shirts I have that I love so much, they are pretty and fit just right. They are seasonal shirts of course. One is sleeveless with a kind of daisy embroidery/stitching pattern at the top. It's red and I love it. I found it at the store and didn't wear it for a whole two months. I was afraid I would ruin it the first time I wore it. Or, that in all of my riding adventures this summer that it would quickly discolor and not be suitable any more. It was my favorite and so I kept it folded neatly in the drawer. with the tags still attached. There are a few other shirts I have and wear sparingly because I am afraid some kid will wipe their snot on it or they will fall and bleed and then cry and then not only will lovely snot get on it, but blood and tears and sand or dirt as well. And, well, I just can't have that. So even though these shirts are very work appropriate, I don't wear them to work (oh wait, I don't have a job, so really, I can't wear them to work even if I desperately wanted to. shame).

Some skirts I have fit in this same category. I love them so much, I don't want anything to happen to them, rip or stain, nothing. So I let them hang in the closet and they mock me. I did wear one of my favorite skirts one day. It's mostly white, with little pink and orange polka-dots on it. I simply love it. I always have and I'm sure I always will. It's my favorite. Well, I wore it one day and as I was helping in the kitchen... it was a disaster. I took the lasagna out of the stove and it spilled. All over me. Not only was it bright red tomato sauce that got on my pretty skirt, it was also extremely hot, red tomato sauce. Not an entirely pleasant experience. Not only was my skirt ruined but my legs had fresh 3rd degree buns on them and I am still recovering from the lasagna spill. If I am ever at your house and you ask me to take the lasagna out of the oven, I will say, "no." and not be sorry about it. Which is rare because I apologize for everything! I say sorry for things that are out of my control (like traffic and power outages). The hubs always looks at me when I say sorry (for something I didn't do) and says, "Why?!" then sometimes he tricks me and says, "You should be!" even though it is obviously not my fault. Then I just say "sorry!" again. The hubs then looks at me. All I can say is, "I'm sorry for being sorry!" sheesh... He is encouraging me to be less apologetic (unless of course it is my fault...) but yes. I will say no and not be sorry.

These are just a few examples of my favorites. I also have favorite hair ties. You might think it sounds silly, but it's true. I have favorites. I always lose my hair ties, it's inevitable. I try to keep them all together, or put them back in the same little basket I got them from that morning, but it doesn't always happen that way. No. they will be absently placed in pockets, drawers, bags, car cup holders, other baskets round the house, and even, yes, my hair. It's really pathetic when I spend the entire morning looking for the one hair tie in particular and not be able to find it to only discover at the end of the day that it was holding my pony tail the whole day long. My favorite pony tail holders are multicolored and are all swirly and pretty and stuff. They just make me happy. While I still have nearly a whole pack pony tail holders that are exactly the same as the one I spend my morning searching for, I refuse to get a new one for fear of losing it.

I also do this with socks. The ones I love the most I try not to wear the most because I love them so and I don't want them to be covered with holes and have my toes popping out all over the place. So they stay nice and neat in the drawer and are only pulled out for special occasions. Like when I can match a shirt with them to a T or some other suchness.

Shoes. I have some favorite shoes. This seems to be the only thing that I don't feel bad wearing. And I wear them all the time with every outfit even if it doesn't really go. I will get all ready and feel quite lovely in my little outfit with favorite shoes on and then the hubs will see me. He normally says, "O, that looks nice" and I say, "Thanks! Don't you Love the shoes?!" Because they are quite obviously the best part about the whole ensemble. Then he says ever so sweetly, "Are you quite sure they go with that skirt (or top)?" At which point I look lovingly at my shoes and say, "Yes. quite." But I know they really probably don't go and I was just overly excited about wearing my favorite shoes. So I turn around and find a more appropriate matching pair. But really, I wear the shoes so often that they are worn out by the end of that season so that come the next Fall or Spring or Winter ... or whenever, I have completely worn out shoes and desperately need another pair. But I don't like to go get a new pair because I am still so taken with my favorites.

Anyway. It's a problem I think. Because, what's the fun in having loads of favorites if you're never going to wear or use them? Some people I know always wear their fanciest and prettiest clothes. It doesn't matter if it's a lazy Saturday, they are dressed up. I don't quite understand this either though. I would feel like they would want to wear their nice and fancy clothes for special occasions or something (church, wedding, picture day, hott date). But nope. They don't. ...but now that I think about it, the clothes they wear on lazy days are probably not their prettiest and best clothes. They have clothes even fancier and dressier than those that they wear for the special occasions. Actually, it's true. They are just always dressed up. how do they do that?! I couldn't. No way. I could live in jeans and a t-shirt. O, wait. I do.

I used to not have this problem quite so severely. I think that is because I only owned five shirts for each season and three pairs of shoes. total. Seriously though. It's true. Thus, they were all my favorites and I wore them all the time. Over and over. It also made them wear out a lot faster too. Which is a shame, because I really did enjoy them. Which also gave me the perfect excuse to purchase five new shirts and one new pair of jeans (cause if you wear those suckers day after day after day... they really get worn out right quick) come the next Fall, Winter, or Spring. ...which makes me think I should revert to my old ways once again. Five shirts worked quite well. As did one pair of jeans. That's almost one for every day of the week! humm. maybe I'll go purge my closet now. yes. yes. I think I will.

socks

One day, not too terribly long ago I threw the last of the hubs' dirty white socks into the color coordinated white basket (white for whites, light green -my personal favorite- for colors, and dark blue for darks) full of dirty clothes, picked it up and started the march down stairs. It wasn't a long march and soon I arrived to our lovely little laundry room. I did Not get out the laundry card with money on it because at my house, I don't have to use a money card for laundry. Wonderful! Instead I threw the clothes in the washing machine right away, added the detergent and pushed start. Glorious. Then I promptly walked out of the room and did something else equally important I am sure.

After a few more trips and changes of laundry, I plopped down on the couch and surrounded myself with three baskets overflowing with fresh clean smelling laundry. The piles slowly grew taller and taller until all I had left to fold was a heap of socks. joy. My favorite. But not really. ...Well, unless they are all my socks, in which case I love to and take the greatest enjoyment in carefully matching up and folding my wonderfully colorful socks. You see, it is by no means, a hard task, as all of my socks are different in both color and design. I have striped socks, heart socks, socks with bugs on them, argyle socks, knee high socks, plain boring old black socks, socks with flowers on them, glow in the dark socks, polka-dot socks, checkered socks, plaid socks, argyle heart socks, snowflake socks, cool Norwegian socks, fuzzy socks, toe socks... the list goes on. No one sock is the same as another pair (which obviously makes for an easy matching and folding time).

...with the exception of my tennis shoe socks that the hubs pressured me into buying after suffering from a severe laugh attack. You see, the hubs saw me wearing my reindeer and Christmas tree socks with my tennis shoes and thought it was the most hi-larious thing ever. It really wasn't. really. However, this only went to reinforce his point of just how athletic I am. being not in the slightest. Naturally to prove him wrong (that I was at least a little bit athletic) I went and got the first pack of sporty socks I could find, unfortunately none of them had a design that was remotely sporty. No baseballs, basketballs, volleyballs, soccer balls, tennis balls ... no balls of any kind. Not even a baseball mitt (glove) or a basketball hoop (goal) was on them. They were all white, white white. Dreadfully white. Thankfully, some had a little bit of pink at the toes and heel, they also had a tiny word printed in pink on the bottom of the toes. Quite obviously, since they had the most character of any of the "sporty" socks I had seen, I snatched them up right away. And since they were all white with pink toes - they were all exactly the same, they take no time to find a match to and fold. I don't have to see which white sock has writing on the bottom and which one doesn't or which one is a little bit bigger than the other one that looks just like it but is really a little bit different.

That's how the hubs' socks are. They are nearly all white and all just a smidgen different from the rest. One will have a black toe and one will not, one will have a black toe and writing on the bottom of the sock and look so close to the one with a black toe that has no writing on the bottom. So I get all excited about finding a match only to discover it wasn't a match... it was a big fat trick. Also, they are all inside out. So not only do I have to sit and individually cross examine each and every sock, I also have to turn them right side out. Good Grief. By the time all of the socks are turned the right side out I have them laying across my living room floor or bed, much resembling a game of memory. I see two plain white ones and pick them up for a match... only to discover that they are not truly a match. shucks. One of the white socks has a little bit of red stitching that can only be seen from up close. The other sock is plain white - no red stitching. I put them back down and start the search all over again. After about nine hours of matching up the hubs' "white" socks, I am done.

What truly amazes me is that when I ask the hubs to help me fold the laundry and I toss him all of his white socks to fold, it only takes him five minutes to do it. Now, I don't know if that's because he just folds any old two together or if he has some special white sock matching up power he's not telling me about. seriously...

So anyway. That's why at the end of my laundry folding endeavor I always have a pile of the hubs white socks to match and fold up.

Well, it just so happened that on this day as I was folding laundry the hubs had some work socks thrown in the mix as well. These ones I don't mind too much, they aren't so tricky to match up because some are tan or light brown or black with stripes. Easy to match up. Happily I went about matching and folding. Then, when I got to the last sock, the last black with little white stripes on them socks, there was only One! I looked in all of the clothes, I unfolded the neatly folded sheets I had just folded and picked at all of the little corners looking for the nice black stripped sock. I then refolded the sheets after there was no sock lurking in their corners. I looked in the washing machine, and even in the little plastic bit that sometimes holds things hostage. I looked in the dryer. I looked behind and in between and below and on the side of the washing machine and dryer. I looked in the laundry baskets and under the laundry baskets. I looked under all of the pretty piles of folded clothes. I looked between the sofa cushions. I looked under the couches. I even checked upstairs where we normally keep the baskets, thinking it might have fallen out. It was not there. It was no where.

Sadly, I placed the lone black and white stripped sock on top of the hubs' dresser and went about my business. There must, of course, be a grieving time for the lost sock. I couldn't just throw the pretty sock out. I concluded one thing: The Dryer Ate the Sock.

You might think that sounds a little crazy. But I'm not. I've had dryers eat my socks before. In fact, one dryer ate my very favorite pair of socks ever. There were new socks. I didn't have many socks either. You see, I had been living in some very hot and tropical environment on the other side of the world and when I came back for school in Chicago area... well, lets just say, my little straw flip flops simply would not do.

Thankfully I have a wonderful sister (well, two really, but for the purposes of this story, one). She is really amazing. Really. I was all lonely and lonesome at a school I truly loathed and so for Fall Break she drove seven odd hours to come get me at school, to only visit there a few minutes, turn around and drive another seven hours back to her home. She even left her adorable baby boy at home so she could come get me. Then she was going to drive me back to the horrible school after Fall Break was over a few days later. What a sister. What a friend. It is true. So. Not only had she helped me that summer prepare for the freezing winter that was to come, she helped me when I was visiting her up in Beautiful Lake country. She took me shopping. O, it was so much fun! I had no warm clothes, and so we spent the day (well, all of the days of my break really : ) shopping for great steals of deals for sweaters and coats, and shoes and socks (I didn't own a pair of socks until this trip) to keep me warm for the winter. We went to the Biggest Mall Ever! Wow!!! So wonderful. Anyways. On this trip I fell in love with a pair of socks. I know, it probably sounds really really silly, in love with a pair of socks. Who does that? ... me ... But it's true. I did. I remember quite clearly all these years later. They were white. With adorable little tan and light brown lions on them. Oh, how I loved my little lion socks. They were simply perfect. My sister even got the same pair, we had matching socks. I would draw a picture of the lion on the socks if I could put it on here, but I can't figure out how to do that, so I won't.

Anyways, a month or so later I was doing my laundry and when I was folding the nice and warm clothes, I could only find one of my lovely lion socks. I looked everywhere. Not only in and around the washer and dryer, but also in the whole laundry room (it was pretty big) and in the hallways I had walked with my laundry, and in the stairways... and in my room ... but alas. It was never found. I even made a sign. I drew a picture of the cute little lion and wrote: "Missing! One Lion Sock. If found please bring to room 329. Thank you!" with lots of smily faces and a few of the lions drawn on it. I posted it in the laundry room and in the hallways. I really loved that sock. But even the sign with the picture did no good. My lion sock was gone forever.

That is why I know that dryers sometimes have a little sock snack. And apparently our dryer was a little bit hungry for a little sock snack. It's a shame really, cause even though that wasn't my sock, it was one of my favorites of the hubs. I especially enjoyed folding it, and it looked pretty nice on his foot too. But now, now he will never be able to wear that snazzy sock again.