"Manbreze"

You know how you react when you enter a home and are immediately assaulted with Parfum de Kitty Litter? You might be inclined to delicately cover your nose, politely look around and say, “You said you have a cat, didn’t you?” or you might unconsciously blurt out, “Here kitty kitty!” – in which case you pretty much have to pray that there IS a cat in the house. Many other smells can be equally unwelcoming… Scent de Cigarette, Droplets de Diaper Pail or perhaps, Eau de Toilet (in which case, I really DO mean toilet water). Companies offer us innumerable solutions to these nasal assailants. Sprays, mists, potpourri, scent-carrying fans, fabric sprays… you name it, someone’s successfully waving it under our noses as we strive to maintain an air of freshness. Sometimes it seems like a losing battle. In fact, the other day I decided that, in addition to the currently popular “Febreze”®, we must have a new product – “Manbreze.” I have the perfect, very obvious advertising slogan too: “A Man Lives Here”. That’s all they need to say and women will be buying the stuff by the gallon. Hell, on the worst days, we may even pour it in a fancy glass, over ice, and drink it. A sniff tour around your house should be enough to convince you that you can’t live without this product. Mine went something like this: Entrance: Sneakers… sniff sniff… OWWWWWW! Why do I have this huge bump on my head??? WHAT? I fainted?! I promptly grabbed the barbecue tongs and sent those stink bombs to live OUTSIDE. I’ll have to remember to apologize to the neighbors and suggest that they might want to close their windows. Closet: Work jacket… sniff sniff… UGH!!!! DOES HE REMEMBER THIS THING IS WASHABLE?! Please tell me that the crunching sound I just heard was a candy bar wrapper in the pocket and not the crustiness of the pits! Bedroom: Dirty socks and underwear… you don’t honestly believe I’ll even come close to sniffing THOSE, do you? They emit a freakin’ toxic glow as it is! My face will go nowhere in that vicinity, thank you. Work clothes, rolled up in a ball in the corner… holy crap, I’m SURE I just saw them move!!!!! After whacking the daylights out of them with my slipper, I use a hanger to poke at them and make sure nothing comes slithering out. Somewhat reassured that nothing is going to crawl up my leg, I manage to work each item into the hamper. Yes, hamper. NOT basketball net. NOT putting green.HAMPER! I attach a quick note: “If you take your best shot and miss, the damn things STILL have to go inside. You have NO problem bending over to show off your hairy butt, model your plumber’s crack or to more effectively launch your best fart flotilla… while you’re down there, help me out a little.” Bathroom: I attempt to walk through the doorway but, instead, find myself firmly on my butt in the hallway. What the HELL? Did we install a glass door that I didn’t know about? Nope. I have come face to face with the room-filling, gag-inducing, dreaded WALL OF WASTE. I’m sure I don’t have to explain which “waste” I’m talking about but let’s just say that no amount of furious flushing is going to clear THIS air. Oh sure, I tried the sprays… and he even tried to use them too. But, as our daughter quite aptly observed, “Green-apple-scented poop is even grosser than the regular kind.” Sighhhhhhhhhh At this point, I can’t take anymore. I need help! I’ve washed, I’ve scrubbed, I’ve aired, I’ve disinfected, I’ve cleaned… but I am no match for this challenge. It’s a beast with a life of its own! It’s a mountain that can’t be climbed! Nawww… it’s just a pig that happily wallows around in its own… stuff… totally oblivious to his pig-dom. Bring on the solution! Someone sell me some “Manbreze” to flow through my house and miraculously eliminate every disgusting odor… because, in spite of my very best efforts, “A MAN LIVES HERE!”

SURPRISE!

Do you like surprises? I like surprises. Monetary surprises are especially nice. Surprise parties can be fun. I do NOT, however, enjoy surprises when I am seated in the doctor’s office. I am distinctly lacking a sense of humor when I am dressed in a huge blue gown that seems to have a circus-tent-volume of fabric in the front and absolutely NONE in the back. Yet, surprised I was, in this very situation, just last week. There I sat, discussing certain issues with my G.P. when she suddenly, and without warning, hauled off and broadsided me with a sledgehammer. OK, she didn’t really do that but I was almost positive that my butt landed in a heap on the floor of her office. A quick assessment of the situation proved that I was still seated firmly on my chair. So it was much less a physical “dumping on the ass” than a verbal one. What, you may ask, would evoke such a response from the very core of my being? In the course of a discussion of … well, let’s say “feminine issues”… she proceeded to utter the words, “So, are you planning to have another baby?” WHAM… KA-POW… BAMMMM … Elaine’s down for the count, folks! “Ex-cuse me?!” says I. “Another baby” says she. OK who stole my doctor and replaced her with THIS piece of work? Here is the rest of the conversation: Me: “Um… I’m 41” Dr: “Yes?” Me: “My daughters are 15 and 12” Dr: “Right” Thanks for the confirmation, toots. For a second I was convinced my brain had somehow leaked out my ear while I was on the examining table. Me: “I shut the factory down 10 years ago! No more production… ya know?” I didn’t really say that – I know the “big girl names” for things and can use them correctly – but I’m sure you all aren’t especially interested in my past medical procedures. By now, the doctor is staring at me and wondering if perhaps she needs to add a referral to a hearing specialist to my file. Then, she laid the mother of all surprises on the desk … “You’re still a young woman. Are you absolutely sure?” Is it inappropriate to kiss your doctor? I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it? Pushing aside the sudden and growing apprehension that my choice of birth control might not be nearly as permanent (or, heaven help me, EFFECTIVE) as I’d been led to believe, I told her that my husband and I had discussed this very issue at great length and had finally decided that the two children in the household were enough for both of us. We are happy with the family AS IS. After giving me a grin that equated to, “Are you sure sure sure?”, we pressed on with our conversation. On the way home in the car, I conveyed the details of the appointment to my husband. By the expression on his face, I couldn’t quite determine if he was going to smile, laugh or puke. I scooted a little closer to the passenger door – just in case. Don’t get me wrong. I love babies. We both do. I loved being pregnant and was actually quite good at it. My friends hated me for having not one day of morning sickness or one minute of missed work. But jeeeeeeez… I AM 41, PEOPLE. I don’t even want a PUPPY because it’s too much extra work! Let’s compare: A puppy, I could put out in the yard to do its “business” or, at the very least, I could paper-train in some less than noticeable area of the house. A newborn makes a business of “business”… and where diapers are involved, there isn’t a single place you can go in the house where you DON’T know exactly what’s in ‘em … by odor alone! A puppy will sleep where and when it chooses, with absolutely no input or assistance from me. A newborn (judging by my first two) will NEVER sleep – in spite of any walking, strolling, bouncing, jiggling, singing, swaddling, swaying, cajoling, begging or pleading I might do to help the process along. A puppy’s playtime will be whenever I have time to throw a ball or squeak a toy. A newborn (judging by my first two) will determine that 3:24 a.m. is a mighty fine time to be wide awake and playing an enchanting game of “let’s stare endlessly at absolutely nothing and then projectile vomit”. WOOHOO! Leaving the house with a puppy will require a leash or harness and a pooper scooper of some kind. Leaving the house with a newborn will require bottles, diapers, wipes, creams, pacifiers, changes of clothes (they really are leaky little beings), stroller, car seat and, depending on the length of the outing, baby swing, bassinet and blankets and more! At some point, you seriously consider buying two of everything and pimpin’ out the family minivan as a nursery on wheels. A puppy will gnaw on the furniture. A newborn will gnaw on my nipples. ‘Nuff said. I admit that it’s comforting to know that we could have a baby if we really wanted to – or even a puppy for that matter. But all things considered, and after googling my contraception of choice, I am confidently 99.5-99.6% sure that I won’t be expecting any more surprises.

Three's a Crowd

WOW! Look at all the DUST! * dances around with the handy dandy electrostatic dusting gizmo which shall remain nameless, just like the nutbars on the commercials * Phew… that’s better. I didn’t know where to sit down. Anyway… I know, I know… it’s been awhile. Sorry I’ve been conspicuous by my absence. Life got in the way again, dammit. I’m pleased to report that THE CONTRACTORS HAVE LEFT THE BUILDING. Thank you, thank you very much. Of course, things still aren’t “finished” because now WE have to jump in and do our thing -- and between work, kids, errands, appointments, groceries, and all that other “stuff”, I barely have enough time to fit in the sheer exhaustion to which I’m so deeply and devotedly attached! But here I am – did ya miss me?? I’ve noticed that I’ve developed a preoccupation with numbers lately. They swim around in my head and take turns doing cannonballs off the diving board in an attempt to be the current needy child… you know, the “Watch me!Watch me!Watch me!” kid that won’t let you have a conversation without first performing the dreaded (and disgusting) “booger blow.” Predominantly, I seem to have an attachment to the #3… #3 – the number of lunches I am now required to make since my husband is currently doing sporadic on-the-job training and I can’t, in good conscience, let him starve. If you’ve been reading along here for any length of time, you know how much I absolutely LOVE this particular chore. So, of course, I had to hold back from lighting sparklers and throwing confetti when he informed me that this number was going up from 2 to 3 on a daily basis. #3 – the number of new rooms in the house that must now be organized and then kept clean. And I paid for this privilege. Through the nose. I’m such a smart one. Oh cripes… I forgot to include the utility/laundry room in that count! Add more 3’s! #3 – the number of loads of laundry that I do per day. Yet, 274637883002 is the number of loads I quite sincerely believe I MUST have done by week’s end. Laundry is one of the tasks that I truly don’t mind. I am fabulous at wash, dry and fold. I majorly suck at putting away. It takes too long, it’s boring as all hell and I can’t open anyone’s dresser drawer without finding a mish mash of clothes that were examined and rejected with the ever-so-popular “roll up in a ball and toss back” punishment being applied. Hence, the next #3 – the number of laundry baskets I own that are almost always full of clean clothes. #3 – the number of family members for whom I DO laundry. They have yet to work their way through the hyper-sensitive learning curve that is “How to discuss my laundry with Mom.” One daughter asked on a Monday, “Mom, if I wear these jeans today, what are the chances that they will be clean again by Friday?” Ignoring the ridiculous (and insulting) implication, I stifled the urge to suggest that she lick them clean and opted instead to tell her that the odds would be excellent if she were doing her own damn laundry. She gave me one of those “so surprised that your eyebrows can’t arch any higher” looks. Gee, I must have offended her sensibilities. My husband, for his part, has learned not to ask if or when I’m planning to wash his clothes. He quickly learned that suggesting something needs doing REALLY pisses me off. At that point, I would have no recourse but to “forget” to do his laundry all together. This would lead to his catwalk display of the ever-so-flattering Fall Down Fashions… socks, shorts, you name it. He’s too sexy for elastic. #3 – the number of months remaining until Daughter #1 officially becomes old enough to get a driver’s license. Not to mention that Daughter #1’s Boyfriend #1 has evidently passed the theory part of Driver’s Ed and is well on his way to HIS license. Is there some sort of #3 haircolor that completely covers grey hair??? If there is, leave it in my bathroom, please, right next to the Parental Trinity – Tums®, Pepto-Bismol® and Grey Goose®. Amen.