Someone… some mystery someone, who lives in I DON’T KNOW WHERE… found my blog this last weekend by typing these words into a Google search engine:
“Ugliest, dirtiest hoarder house in the entire world.”
And with those words, they ended up here. People, it’s exactly like winning the Ugly Contest when you find out that those words can direct folks right here.
It’s precisely what I was hoping to achieve when I began this blog in 2009… Just a non-judgmental place for people to come, when they wanted to know which poor soul had the very dirtiest house in the entire world. Not just part of the world… or a certain section of the world… but in the ENTIRE world.
I will just toot my own horn and declare that my house is actually relatively CLEAN at the moment. We left town for the weekend, and my mama (who is officially a RETIRED preschool teacher, as of May 31st, and who is already UTTERLY BORED) came over on Thursday morning and plugged my vacuum cleaner in. And then she folded some laundry. And then I felt horrible, letting her do stuff like that while I sat on my sofa with a box of bon-bons, so I picked my feet up off the floor and gave myself an abdominal workout while my mother vacuumed beneath me.
I thought it was the least I could do to help her out.
And then I scrubbed my toilet, because I didn’t want anyone Googling the words, “Ugliest, dirtiest, truck stop toilet in the entire world,” and finding me online.
I have a bit of pride, people.
And yes. We packed up our bags on Thursday afternoon, and we split town. Keith and Carrie had enticed us to come to Major Thriving Metropolis to see them and finally let our twelve-year-old visit a real zoo, and who are we to deprive our firstborn of life experiences like that?
(Secretly, I know Carrie wanted me to come down so she could ween me off of the Lime-a-Ritas. Carrie, you see, has her bread buttered by the Lime-a-Ritas’ competition. She had a little THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN OUR COMPETITORS’ AWFUL, LIME-INFUSED DRINK tasting party on her patio. I don’t think she really cared if we made it to the zoo or not, just so long as I went home buying her company’s products.)
(I’ll probably buy another Lime-a-Rita before the fireworks go off.)
(I think we’re still friends anyway.)
But… we did go. And I pretty much forgot everything that I needed to take. Camera? Forgot it. (Which Hubs announced is on a level playing field with me forgetting one of the children.) Hair dryer? Forgot it. Thing 2’s portable, travel-crib? Left it at home. A brush? Nope. One of those didn’t make it into the suitcase either.
Hubs summed it all up by asking, “What DID we bring with us on our trip?”
Clean underwear and the boys. That’s what we brought.
And yes. We went to the zoo. I commandeered Carrie’s camera right off of her arm. As in, when she was turned, helping her younger son into the wagon, I just said, “Can I borrow this?” and slid her camera off of her shoulder and into my hot little hands.
And then I proceeded to take so many photos, I burned her memory card to a little pile of smoking ash. It’s not every day that we get to see the enormous rear end of an elephant who refuses to turn our way and wave her trunk. Her hind end has been forever documented with digital preservatives.
There will be snapshots from the weekend later. I’ll tell all y’all about the zoo sometime this week. And the trampoline jumping. And the guacamole. And the baseball game. And the train ride. And driving in the Suburban with Thing 2 for extended periods of time.
But tonight, I can’t really be witty enough to make the blog post interesting, because of all the NOT SLEEPING that happened over the weekend. When your time is limited, you should just sacrifice sleep and have another batch of guacamole.
Because Sheer Exhaustion is our family’s motto, I rolled the boy out of bed first thing this morning and hauled him to the doctor’s office, so that she could diagnose the reason why one of his tonsils was the size of a pterodactyl egg. He was supposed to leave for a week’s worth of summer camp this afternoon, and I was a skeptic that he should go without a bottle of antibiotics in his bag.
As it turns out, he has a viral cold sore on his tonsil.
Obviously, because this happens so often with children.
No. No, it doesn’t happen SO OFTEN. Our pediatrician said it’s rather rare, but that the boy had managed to pull it off. If there is one thing the Jedi Family can do and do right, it’s pulling off a medical surprise.
After shelling out a $30 insurance co-pay to hear, “It’s a cold sore. On his tonsil. Have a great week at camp,” I drove the boy up the mountain with his buddy, Enzo. I dumped him off at church camp, with enough warm clothes to outfit a team of biologists on an expedition to Antarctica, and enough socks to make sure all the feet in China stay warm.
(My friend, Peggy, has older children. They’ve already been through weeks of summer camp. She told me that you can never send too many pairs of socks with a twelve-year-old boy, because boys will get their socks wet. And boys will throw their socks on the rooftop of the cabin, just because they’ve invented a game where they do that sort of thing.)
(The boy could play the THROW YOUR SOCKS ON THE ROOF game until the cows came home. He’s set.)
(I credit Peggy for keeping the boy’s feet warm and dry all week.)
And then I warned him to STAY WITH THE GROUP, and DON’T FORGET TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH BECAUSE THOSE BRACES ARE COSTING ME ALL OF MY STOCK IN STARBUCKS, and IF IT LOOKS DANGEROUS, IT PROBABLY IS, SO DON’T DO IT, and IF YOU NEED TO CALL ME FOR ANY REASON, NO MATTER IF IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, YOU GO RIGHT AHEAD AND DO IT BECAUSE MAMA LOVES YOU.
And then I dumped him off.
He made up his bunk with an enthusiasm I’ve never seen him display while he’s making his bed at home.
(The answer is YES. The boy really HAS grown. As in, he’s grown almost two inches since January and gained ten pounds since then, and NO WONDER NONE OF HIS CLOTHES FIT ANY LONGER! I know this for a fact, because the nurse at the doctor’s office told us what had taken place with all the growing.)
(And? Well. He’s still in the 20th percentile for height and weight. EVEN WITH all that growing too tall for his windpants to cover his ankles that went on this year.)
I miss the boy already, but I know that he and Enzo are going to have a fantastic week staying up late, raiding the neighboring cabins for stashes of junk food, hiking the mountains, canoeing the lakes, hearing Jesus speak through their Bible studies, and not thinking about their mamas a single time.
At least they’ll be doing all of that with dry socks.
On account of the boy had about twenty pairs of those in his bag.
Compliments of his mother.
Now… if she could just learn to clean her house so that strangers didn’t land on her blog looking for photographic proof that someone’s house is actually worse off than theirs is!
Y’all have a good Monday night.