Dark Tales from the Mudroom

Today, boys and girls I am going to use you as my sounding board instead of my therapist.  Today, I am going to talk about cleaning the house.  Firstly, I think I should tell you that when you walk into someones house, you initially look around to get a overall view of the place.  You make your internal comments about the furniture, intensity of dust or lack thereof, maybe you search out decorating hints for your own place, who knows.  I did this same thing when I walked into my mudroom this morning.  I stopped dead in my flip flops and let out a squeak.  I didn't want to alarm my sons that I was in distress about the look of this room.  After all, this is the main entrance to our house.  We don't use the front door much.  Everyone comes into my house through the back door.   The rug needs to be replaced.  After all, what idiot leaves a rug in the MUDROOM.  Soooo much dirt from people and dog has made its way onto and into this poor Berber.  It is past its prime.  Thank you dear rug for sacrificing yourself for these past 18 years. Time to retire you to the trash heap.  Like you'll know the difference.

I panned to the shelving above the washer and dryer and sink.  So much junk shoved up there and teetering on the brink.  Team baseball hats that fit heads when said heads played baseball too long ago.  I'll admit to my glove being up there and some other things put up there in haste years ago.  It was this particular area that I began to hone in on. Yes, I would begin my conquest of the mudroom by starting with the shelves and what lies behind the dreaded washer and dryer.

One's motivation should come from the knowledge that you haven't looked behind your washer/dryer since the painters were in 3 years ago.  Oh and don't get me started on that topic because they forgot to come back and paint that area.  Don't get me started.  Okay, moving along now, I know I flooded that part of the room on more than one occasion. There was money, former white socks that allowed a fungal menagerie to linger for way too long.  Unfortunately, those socks have been forever retired to the trash.  Everything that ever fell off the washer/dryer when they were shaking from too big a load. I was happy to be able to squeeze where I could squeeze between and behind each unit.  My vacuum stretched and made sounds of pain but it complied.  I dusted and wiped down everything I could reach.  I'm proud of that area now.  You know that area, the one that no one sees because its behind doors.  But I know, I have a new sense of pride now.  I could throw away everything that belongs to THEM. THEM leave things wherever THEM dumps them.  Even when they think (ha ha) they are putting things away, they aren't.  Distressing, I know. Thus, is my plight in this lifetime.  Next time, my world will be filled with a place for everything.  Yes, that is my plan. 

My Summer of MaleTeenagers

The fireworks began in my head long before the 4th of July arrived. Such is the fun of having a teenage boy who has friends. Lots of friends. I applaud my son for being so likeable and having nice friends to hang around with. But the much adored, overly abused phrase "boys will be boys" has been applied once too many times so far. I have just ended June and begun July when both menopause and the summer of teenage boys have hit like a Ryan Howard homerun. Like I need the hot flash hell-go-round. I think science is better off hotwiring teenage boys' brains than trying to figure out how to get us to Mars. This particular point in my life is at the mercy of a 15 year old male brain. A brain that can recite statistics from football games, tell you who sang what song in what year and can inform you that he will capitalize majorly when he is in the job world because he just knows how smart he truly is. This same brain forgets what homework is but can hit the 99th percentile in the PSSAs. My school district is proud he performs so well on this test but must be scratching their cumulative heads when looking at his regular test results. I don't scratch anymore. Too much scratching leaves holes.

My 15 year old female brain was filled with not so much knowledge about statistics of football games, but how good football players looked in their uniforms. What color eyeshadow will make my eyes pop, and which hairspray can really hold it all in place. Will my breasts ever look as good as the other more developed girls in gym class (they never did). Its funny to me that our brains weigh the same, look the same and find themselves located above the shoulders in the same cranial mold yet function as if they were never hooked up properly. I suspect I will be making more entries as I take a ride on the teenage rollercoaster. So many thoughts, so many evil thoughts as to how to bring him down before he can start on another scheme that will surely pull his status as top 15 year old male who plunders parents in the "Teenage Boy Befuddles Parents Hall of Fame."

Stay tuned.