Making Friends Through Bleach

Do you know what makes me happy?

I mean, other than Saturday night parties outside, where the kids outnumber the adults, five to one, forcing the parents in attendance to play zone defense, rather than man-to-man, and where the wine flows freely, and the hostess says, “Please. Have some more wine,” over and over, until you just decide that, “Fine. Fine. I will have even more wine, thank you very much, Miss Sarah,” and then you realize that all the kids have raided the hostess’s son’s dress-up box, which is roughly equivalent to the size of the costume department on Broadway, and they all don black (as in, black, the color of ink and the night) clothing, and then…blam! You can’t see them anymore, and they all decide to play hide-and-seek, racing around outside, completely invisible in their black garb, until someone (some! one!) begins screaming like a banshee in the throws of death that takes eighteen years off your life, and then you breathe an enormous sigh of relief when, after searching for the child in the dark with fear in your heart, based on screams alone, because…hello…you can’t actually see the child screaming, because he’s wearing a black cape and black T-shirt and black pants…it becomes clearly evident that it was only a massive handful of sand that quite accidentally made it into his eyes and momentarily blinded him, but not for life?

Other than all of that, do you know what I like?

Because, honestly, the party on Saturday night was some kind of fun. It was a potluck at a close friend’s house, where the kids ran freely and were able to throw all sorts of miscellaneous items into the roaring firepit (think paper plates, and napkins, and hot dog buns, and dropped marshmallows) and exclaim, with gladness, over and over, the simple phrase that all boys love to hear — in fact, LIVE to hear: “Wow! Would you just look at that burn!” We drank wine, we ate until we could barely walk upright, we counted children (hoping to tally 20), we drank more wine, we roasted marshmallows over the fire, we counted children some more (and were pleased when we obtained the number 20), we warmed our hands by the fire, we laughed until we nearly cried, we counted children again (and were amazed that we still had 20!), we drank more wine, and…eventually…we said good-bye, and we took our dirty, tired children with sticky fingers that were coated with marshmallow goop home.

So yes, do you know what I like, other than all of that and the fact that, once you graduate from college, you have a free-reign license to type run-on sentences anytime you feel like it? You can, in fact, type run-on sentences after college graduation that are really more of a run-on paragraph, rather than a simple run-on sentence, because eventually the sheer volume of words involved moves things to the next level and qualifies the verbage as a full-blown paragraph.

Other than all of that, I really like the fact that three people (count them: one, two, three) have found my blog from different areas of the globe (think East Coast, Deep South, and Canada) because they did a Google search on the World Wide Web for two simple words linked together…

CLOROX WIPES.

My Type A personality, which tends to overscrub things with the little disposable, bleach-infested wipes, thrills to know that this crazy little blog can be found if one searches for Clorox Wipes online.

I, myself, buy stock in them. I have the little jugs of wipes sitting under our kitchen sink, under our bathroom sink, and in the boy’s linen closet in his bathroom. I buy Clorox wipes like other people buy milk and bread and eggs.

So, to the East Coast, and to the Deep South, and to Canada, welcome to my blog. I don’t always talk about Clorox wipes here, and I may even deviate some day and mention the fact that I am also powerfully attracted to the Lysol wipes, with the little scrubbing grit stuck in them. But, truly, it’s nice to know that I have friends scattered here and there, and that we have been linked together with the bleach.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *