We’ve had a guy at the house a few times this week trying to fix our washing machine. He’s quite a character. After his first visit, he instructed my husband to, “Have your wife run a few loads of laundry,” and let him know if I’m happy. I’m not happy, but the washer appears to be.
Last Friday, my husband took a break from admiring the fifteen pounds of meat he was smoking for Saturday’s party, and went inside to fold some of that laundry I’m supposed to be doing. I was outside raking crap in the backyard, consciously appreciating the fact that our gender roles are so flexible.
I was really enjoying the fresh air and exercise, paired with the great smells coming from the smoker, until I realized there was a rather offensive odor overcoming all that deliciousness. I had a suspicion as to what it was, and confirmed my fear when I looked under the deck and saw a big wad of fur.
I asked my six-year-old to go get daddy, who promptly came outside. I explained the situation, trying to keep the kids from hearing my morbid news. Daddy’s initial response of, “I don’t smell anything,” wasn’t quite what I was looking for, but he followed it up by reluctantly agreeing to grab a shovel.
It was at this moment that I embraced the return of traditional gender roles, and happily agreed to fold the rest of the laundry Then I added, “scooping dead animals out from under the deck” to my list of things I’m too pretty to do.
Craigslist That Shit
It was a big week for selling our crap on Craigslist. One lady was interested in our let’s-not-tell-the-kids-we’re-selling-it wagon, and checked it out one night around 8:30. My husband met her in the garage. As they stood there negotiating, the garage door randomly closed on them, likely giving the young mother a bit of a scare, and me a bit of a laugh. She ended up buying the wagon, probably out of fear of what would happen if she tried to decline. I listened to the wheels quickly turning as she briskly walked it to her car. Thinking about this stranger’s supposed psychological panic fascinated me, and I am now working on more scare tactics to ensure people buy our garbage.
I’m finally getting around to covering up a bad, twenty-year-old chest tattoo I got from a gentleman in Mattoon named Toad. Finding the right piece takes a lot of time and thought — neither of which were apparently given by the woman who came to buy our old TV, as she proudly rocked Superman’s “S” in light blue ink, right in the center of her chest. At least she helped me realize one tattoo I won’t be getting.
Speaking of psychological experiments and Craig’s List, I wonder how much I could get for The Reverse Rick Moranis, The Squatting Eskimo, and The Wet Ski Mask … three more terms I heard this week but have no idea what they mean. And who keeps telling me this shit? Identify yourself!
Organized Chaos
This week, my phone sent seemingly random texts to both my mother and my bartender. Trying to make some connections, I obviously linked this event to the end of Dick Clark’s $25,000 Pyramid — where the celebrity is trying to get the contestant to guess what’s on a series of squares shaped like a pyramid. Here’s what I came up with: People who give you life … people who nurse you … people who wait on you … people who clean up after you. Then I convinced myself the texts weren’t so random after all.