Saturday, January 15, 2011

The Invisible "They" Say One Can be Sure of Two Things, Death and Taxes...*I* Say There Are Two More Things, Dishes and Laundry

I am pretty sure I have complained about this before, but no matter. I'm gonna do it again.

I just feel like I am in a frickin' Twilight Zone Episode, where every time I turn around, there is a mile-high pile of dishes in the sink, or clothes needing to be thrown in the hamper or the machine. It's like this:

*I walk into the kitchen for a cookie*

Me: "AAAAAAAAAACK! There's something in the sink!"

Me again: "What is it?"

Me to Me: "It's some thing..."

Me back to Me: "I don't see anything..."

Me yelling at Me: "Yes! It's a man! No! It's green and slimy and smells like onions!"

Me consoling Me: "You poor, poor woman. Go back to bed with your cookie."

Or, it's like this:

Me: Walking into bedroom to get some clean socks. "OH MY FRICK!"

Me (again): "What? What is it?"

Me to Me, because I talk to Me all the time: "SOCKS!"

2nd Me: "Your clean socks?"

1st and obviously crazy Me: "No! Socks! There! I moved black socks to the hamper just last night, and here they are, again!"

2nd lucid Me: "No, you probably thought you moved them, but got distracted by the dog or something and you actually left them there."

1st needing to be committed Me: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I KNOW I PICKED THEM UP AND NOT 10 HOURS LATER THEY MANAGED TO CRAWL OUT OF THE HAMPER AND BACK TO THIS SPOT! OR, THEY SPAWNED! THE SOCKS IN MY HOUSE ARE SPAWNING!!!!"

It's just too much for me to take. I feel like Shatner in that one episode...


Dirty Dishes + Dirty Laundry =
SOMETHING ON THE WING!

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I mean, I stumble out of bed on a Saturday morning, all puffy-eyed and staggering, not because I had a wild night of partying, but because I am just old and cantankerous, and my sweet, wide-awake daughter asks so gently, "can we have waffles mom? Please?"

I look over in the kitchen, and, the decision I made the night before, what seemed like a good and reasonable decision, to leave the dinner dishes until morning, slaps me in the face like a wet rubber chicken.

"BLARGHING TWILIGHT ZONE CRIPES!"

Audge: "Does that mean you're making waffles?"

Me: "Yessssssssssssssss..."

It's not that I don't want to be a good mommy, who makes her kids waffles on the weekends, something they'll brag about to their roommates when they are in college, eating cold shriveled pizza for breakfast from the evening before, it's just that I have to use dishes and waffle irons and bowls and utensils to make them, which means MORE DIRTY DISHES ON TOP OF DIRTY DISHES!

ARGHABLAGGABLOB!

Don't tell me to buy frozen waffles. That's just ridiculous.

Even having family stay with us didn't make it worse, we already use that many dishes! Having two extra mouths in the house didn't cause my plight to increase! It's like adding two more locusts to the plague...do two more really matter? Now...I am not suggesting my family was like locusts or the plague, we miss them quite terribly actually...I am just trying to paint a vivid picture of just how bad it can get.

Even laundry. If only laundry were the new PX90...I would make BAZILLIONS! I am gonna look into that...

But first, I am gonna work on a spray for dirty laundry, like Febreze, but much much better. My spray will not only clean the clothes right there on the floor, but it will make the clothing come alive, fold itself and hop into the drawer, or take flight and hang itself on the hanger. The spray might even cause the clothing to adjust its size depending on the day...for me anyway...don't get any ideas, I have a patent pending...

So, obviously, I just have to accept that dishes and laundry are my leaky boat in life; no matter how much I bail out, it just keeps coming, trying to sink me. And no matter how many times I've seen it, it freaks me out and makes me mental.

Oh well. I can't have my family running around naked, or clothed in stiff, stinky clothes, starving, or scraping bits of crusty or soggy food to eat from the sink. It's a mother's lot in life, and I accept it. The end.


8 comments:

w said...

you know i buy frozen waffles. you know this! but it's ok. remember? i'm gonna start making them. and freezing them. so. idk. where does that leave me?

i don't do the dishes. or laundry. i let myself do them instead. yeah. that's exactly how i felt reading the first part of this post. and i felt that way, too.

alex o'loughlin. hawaii 5-o. and. he has the same birthday as me and me.

Teisha said...

Frozen waffles are my bestie.

Laundry that comes to life would freak me out so bad that I'd pee everytime BUT I like the idea of self folding laundry. Touche.

Aries said...

Glad I am not the only one complaining about laundry and dishes. So true, every time I turn around there are always a big pile of it, and my 2 teenage sons kept asking if I had wash their scouts uniform, or a particular shirts etc. Never ending.

Jessica (Hey Lola) said...

I feel your pain. I mean - not really, actually. I don't have kids and you'd be hard pressed to get me to cook anything for anybody, and I'm certainly not doing anyone's laundry. But I hate doing housework and chores and stuff, so...I feel your pain.

ModernMom said...

Oh yes! The Twilight zone exists here too, The stupid laundry never ends...and where does the other sock go?

http://www.suburbanjungle.net said...

I think laundry may be more sure than taxes for me. I mean, I totally pay taxes, tons. Does the IRS read your blog... EAT MORE FROZEN WAFFLES!

Jessica (Hey Lola) said...

I came by here to read your new blog post, but you don't have one.
What's that about?

I mean, I guess we can still be friends...except it's blog reading day, and I read this one already.

It's ok. It's also house cleaning day, and I'm just procrastinating.

I'm going to mop a floor or something.

Claire said...

Aaagh. I hate dishes. And washing. And taxes. They all leave you feeling violated, dirty, broke and depressed. And I hate how the socks are never in pairs. What is that? One of the socks is always suicidal, no matter how hard you try. Bastards all of them. Have a glass of wine. Or two.

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