Every once in a while I will get an email from my mother which says something to the effect of ‘it’s been _ weeks since your last blog post.’ And I will mentally dig through the precious few crumbs where once resided a reasonably useful brain in an effort to conjure up something memorable or remotely amusing, and inevitably come up emptyhanded.
It happened a few days ago, the email, and I’ve been drawing a blank on suitable topics or anecdotes ever since.
Now that the boys are older, they’re not quite as overtly amusing as they once were. Other than Percy’s latest fondness for, and resulting overuse of, the word ‘nipple’. Which is hardly worth expounding upon beyond a sentence.
He also told the Hen today that his idea was ‘unrealistic.’ Which struck me as funny, a five year old saying that to a seven year old. But beyond those four seconds of witty, it’s just been ‘Days of Our Lives’ chez nous. (Minus the intrigue and scandal and long lost siblings.)
The professor was unloading the dishwasher last night, when I walked around the corner from the living area to the kitchen and nearly concussed myself on a glass-front cupboard door that had been left ajar. To say I was unamused would be a gross understatement. By way of explanation for my close encounter with death, he insisted that this was how one unloads dishes: open every single cupboard where dishes could potentially go and leave the doors open until the dishwasher is completely emptied (and one remembers to close said doors).
Which, without knowing how other households operate, I can only assume that nooneintheworld does that.
‘This is just the cat’s meow!’ I fumed at the news of his suddenly laissez-faire approach to opening and closing doors. Because the professor and I have been married for approximately 6841 days and he has indicated one (hundred) time(s) that I have a problem with not-closing doors and drawers. Of course I didn’t have the opportunity to convey any of that because the professor was convulsing with laughter.
‘The cat’s meow?!’ he all but cried at my malapropism. ‘Usually when people say that, they mean it as a positive, not the straw that broke the camel’s back.’
Like I said, crumbs where my brain used to be.
With the cupboard conundrum unresolved, I continued on with my project-du-nuit: getting rid of anything we do not currently use. As I waded through the boys’ ‘office’, picking up pennies and rainbow loom bands and 50,000 tiny pieces of Lego, I found a discarded piece of paper with barely legible boy-writing on it.
Naturally I took a moment:
Run away plan
*Get my money out of the bank
*Get rid of every single picture that has me in it
*Pack food, clothes and money
*Hitch a ride to the rockies
Sneak food while everyone is downstairs
I alerted the professor to the near-present or near-past situation and we howled, just a little, not least because of the plan’s inherent flaws: The author of the plan has enough money in the bank to pay for one night of a cheap hotel ‘in the rockies’. This does not bode well for running away for more than 24 hours.
Then there is, of course, the truly problematic matter of ‘getting rid of every single picture that has me in it.’ Clearly the boy is unaware that I have in excess of 48.000 digital images stored on various computers and external hard drives. And, seeing as the majority of my photographs are of my cherubs, eliminating every one that bears his likeness would take……..a considerable amount of time.
‘Well, when we see him sitting down at the computer trying to delete photos we’ll know it’s time to have a chat,’ the professor resolved.
Just before midnight, having filled three boxes worth of ‘stuff’, I sat down to address the somewhat pressing matter that is my children being without clean socks or pants. Woozy as a result of the hour, cupboard concussion, and skipping dinner in lieu of playing piano and consuming chocolate chip cookies, I surrounded myself with five very large loads of freshly laundered clothes and the first thing I found on Netflix that had more than two stars: Pitch Perfect.
I folded shirts and pants and attempted to relocate some of the 40 single socks taking up residence in my ‘unmatched’ box, while watching the Bellas duke it out with the Trebles.
It’s not entirely clear to me which is the lamest part of that sentence.
Or maybe it’s that I stayed up until 1:30am folding laundry, matching socks and watching the Bellas duke it out with the Trebles.