So Hubs has been spending a considerable amount of time in the garage lately, what with it being clean and all.
There’s so much space in there now, I’ve decided that we should hang a disco ball, put some Joan Jett on the turntable, and invite everyone over to roller skate.
(You know, since we can’t play Bon Jovi’s cassette tape, what with it being in the city dump and all, right there next to Belinda Carlisle. I told my friend Carrie about my sin of purging Jon Bon Jovi’s tape from my life on Saturday. Carrie has some issues with Jon… I think she still buys Tiger Beat magazines, with hopes that he and his tight, white T-shirt will be featured in one soon. Her husband even assured me once that he’s known all along that he’s second place to Bon Jovi, but he adores Carrie anyway. Our friend, Mandy, told me today that she was kind of worried that Carrie was probably out in the landfill, all afternoon, hollering for her lost love. Right after that, Carrie told me that she just couldn’t talk to me, because [and I quote her here], she was “covered in elk hides, baby poo, rotten food, and who knows what else, trying to save her man,” while she dug around in the landfill. Mandy was spot-on right.)
(The poor girl. Doesn’t Carrie know she can buy the entire 7800 Degrees Fahrenheit album on iTunes for cheap American dollars?)
(What is this? 1986?)
(I’d question if Carrie even still owns a device that will play cassettes. Goodness knows, I don’t, which is why I made the big girl decision to LET THE TAPE COLLECTION GO!)
(Therapy, in the form of Starbucks, will see me through this.)
(I love those two girls; I really, REALLY do.)
(I also suggested that Carrie try Dawn dish soap when she gets home, because that’s what they use to scrub baby birds up after they’ve gotten caught in oil spills. I’m pretty sure it’ll take the elk hide goop off.)
(Also? I have a hard time even typing the words ELK HIDE, because UGH! I may have just thrown up a little.)
Today was one of those rare and precious days when Thing 2 played with his little tractors all day long and obeyed the rules of the house. It was like the VERY BEST DAY of ever, because I didn’t have to keep pulling him off of the refrigerator and telling him to quit swinging from our chandelier. I even texted Hubs’ mama to tell her that HECK, YES! The baby and I had accomplished a fantastic day together, and then…
… he sort of unrolled an entire roll of Charmin (Again; story of my life, which is why I may begin buying the CHEAP toilet paper that scratches.). The thing is, that toddler of ours decided to be OH-SO-VERY-MUCH-HELPFUL after he hollered out, “Oh, no-oo-ooooo!!!” He scooped up all one hundred and four miles of soft, quilted bathroom tissue and stuffed it into the toilet.
All at once.
Every bit of it.
Now, we bought our toilets brand new when we built this house. (Finding used toilets for sale in order to save on house-building expenses was just something that I couldn’t do.) They came in cardboard boxes, and on the outsides of those boxes were the words, “This sucker can flush thirty golf balls without plugging up.” We haven’t actually tried that yet, because WHAT IF THEY LIE? This afternoon, though, I looked at all of that soaking wet toilet paper, which looked like one of Mt. Everest’s foothills, and I decided that I wasn’t going to risk it.
Thirty golf balls or not, this looked like a power flush was about to happen. Visions of an overflowing toilet scared me off.
And that’s when I put my hand into the toilet water, extracted half of the mushy, wet, falling-apart toilet paper, lifted it above the toilet bowl so that it could just drip in there, and flushed.
And then I waited for the bowl to refill with water, while I just stood around holding soaked toilet paper, before I threw the second wave in and flushed again.
Motherhood is not for the faint of heart.
And neither is scouring the stench-filled heaps at the city dump for any sighting of Jon Bon Jovi’s cassette tape.