And not necessarily in a good way. This week left me breathless, like when you’re 96 years old, and you decide that you’d like to reach the summit of Mt. Everest before Jesus calls you home, and you get a little winded in the trying of accomplishing your final goal.
Hubs and I have been a little busy kicking some Christmas monkeys off our backs this week. Or at least I have been occupied with the little clinging primates, while Hubs has been fixing computers.
Hubs likes to think he’s knee-deep in the Christmas spirit, but I guarantee you that he’ll ask me on Christmas Eve, “So. We need a new computer. Can I just cram that into your stocking and call it good? I don’t have to actually, you know, SHOP for you, do I?”
In the midst of all the working (PE won’t teach itself! And church offices are ever-so-very-much-busy this time of year, in anticipation of Baby Jesus’ arrival! And the computers! They break!) and all the holiday shopping, and the writing of the Christmas letter, and the Christmas parties we’ve attended, I have sort of neglected our home.
I know that messier houses than ours exist. Really. I know that.
I also know that they call them Crack Houses.
And the boy told me today, “Mom, this is my LAST pair of underwear.”
I told him, “You have GOBS of boxers! Gobs!”
And the boy said, “Yes, I do. And they’re all in the dirty clothes basket.”
I started counting backwards on my fingers and realized that YES! YES, IT HAS BEEN A SUBSTANTIAL AMOUNT OF TIME SINCE I WASHED A LOAD OF LAUNDRY. And really? That probably also explains why the boy wore a pair of windpants to school today that showed off his ankles. I had them in the sack to hand down to his younger cousin, and the boy had them on this morning.
If he has no clean underwear, he may not have any clean pants that fit, either.
Clearly, the neighbors are keeping an eye trained on me, ready to call the Department of Family Services at any given moment, since I have not laundered my family’s clothing.
And, to make matters worse, as Hubs and I were in the middle of photocopying and folding our family’s Christmas letter tonight, we were singing along to some Christmas tunes, and we were changing the words a little bit, and laughing hysterically together. And then we got to talking about the fact that the boy has asked Santa Claus for a chemistry set, which we’re pretty sure Santa is going to come through on, and Hubs was saying that he may have actually SEEN the chemistry set today that Santa is considering, and that HOLY SNOT, BATMAN! IT IS FILLED WITH SOME REALLY COOL STUFF! AND THERE IS EVEN A PAIR OF SAFETY GOGGLES, FOR THOSE WHO ARE NOT BRAVE ENOUGH TO BLOW THEIR OWN EYEBALLS OUT!
On account of Hubs once did that.
Shot himself in the eye and all. When he was sixteen years old.
So really? The saying, “It’s all fun and games until someone shoots an eye out” is actually HYSTERICALLY FUNNY at the Jedi Manor.
So Hubs and I were laughing about all of that together tonight, and then Hubs turned to me, and, with this totally serious expression on his face, he asked me, “Honey, are we dysfunctional?”
I said, “Well, dysfunctional IS as dysfunctional DOES.”
And then Hubs said, “I’d like to have a column on your blog, where I write about all the stupid things people do to break their computers, except I don’t really like to write things.”
Because YES! YES, THAT CHANGE OF THOUGHT FIT RIGHT IN WITH WHAT WE WERE TALKING ABOUT.
So, people, with all of that said tonight, I’m off to watch some more episodes of Arrested Development (via the wonderment of Netflix) with Hubs, because the Bluth family makes Hubs and I feel like we’re not the WORST dysfunctional family around.
Our house might currently be MESSIER than the model home that the Bluth family lives in, but we’re functioning on a stellar level, when compared to that syndicated family!
Of course, the Bluth family isn’t…you know…REAL.
So can we still consider ourselves less dysfunctional than they are?!