For over 700 days, my house has suffered. Neglect, abuse, and at times, abandonment. Because I just didn't have the time or energy to give it the care it deserved or needed. And I wasn't getting any help.
I begged, pleaded, threatened my boys to please, please help me. I even lowered myself to a level I didn't want to come to, "You just must not care about me." Worked for maybe 2 hours. I wasn't asking much, just that they all clean up their OWN things...
Anyway, now that I'm done with school. Here's my pent up rantings in blog form:
Lets start in the bathroom, because that's so easy:
I don't care how accessible, how fresh, or how cold the water is in the dog dish, they insist on drinking out of the toilet. For our larger dog, it doesn't matter if the seat is down, he manages to stick his beak-y nose beneath the seat, lift it, drink and then lets the seat slam down when he's done. Usually at 2 in the morning. The smaller dog has very large lips. He dribbles everywhere.
And honestly, I think Kamrin gets in trouble more often than not for not aiming when it's actually Ripley leaving little puddles from the reservoir he calls lips. Bo will actually follow you into the bathroom and stare at the opposite wall, while you use 'his' water bowl! If he could hum and tap his paw, he would. The minute you're done, he rushes over like he's been stranded in the desert for a week!
There is a cup FULL of kid-sized toothbrushes. Each with bristles as hard as a pumice stone because each child refuses to rinse the brush after brushing.
We have an empty toilet paper holder, and 3 rolls of toilet paper sitting on the bathroom counter. But you only notice after you've started peeing that it's just far enough out of each that you have to lift you butt off the toilet and risk being a part of the Ripley statistic.
When you get out of the shower, the fogged mirror has each boy's name written on it along with several zombie faces (and hearts...go figure).
While in the shower, the towel you so carefully hung on the hook to use when you got out, is now lying on the edge of the counter...used to wipe up the millions of small beard hairs in the sink. And it wasn't replaced. And the towel closet is over two soggy steps away.
Along that same line...every time I give the bathroom I deep scrubbing, there is some sort of siren song that compels my husband to shave, or clip nose hair, or give himself a haircut. A small poodle ends up in the sink.
On to the bedroom:
My husband's dirty clothes always end up right. next. to the bed. I imagine my husband as some sort of Frankenstein, with arms outstretch grumbling, "urmmmm, bed..." and the shorts just end up right there. I've tried putting a laundry hamper in there. Doesn't work. I tried 3 laundry baskets, maybe thinking he was just a bad aim. Still, they end up draped over the fan, or become a fire hazard over our TV hook-up box on the dresser.
I'm one of those weird people who have to have their sheets straightened before I can climb into bed. Kind of a "princess and the pea" concept. We have a deep mattress and special sheets with pockets. Those have to be tugged all the way down or I will be awake all night.
I don't care how hot it is, I have to at least have a sheet on me. All of me. No feet poking out, no diagonal sheets, and enough that it goes over the edge of the mattress. My husband will be satisfied if 30% of his calf is covered and the top blanket is 3/4 on the floor. I have, several times, come in, retrieved the ball of sheet (haha) from underneath his right leg and completely remade the bed while he slept.
My husband feels the need to sleep with 4 pillows. There might as well be a 3rd person in our bed. Hate it.
Kitchen:
Oh kitchen, there is so much I could say here. I like my kitchen clean, but it's a never ending battle. Like the tiny top edge of the long freezie pop that was cut off and abandoned, and then left to melt and stain my counter. Not to mention the 5 sticky knives that are laying next to it, because lord forbid you use the same knife for each Popsicle!
Or when I'm sitting at the kitchen table, dislodging my elbow from a nearly invisible syrup stain, and my heart jumps to my throat because I saw something scurry across the floor out of the corner of my eye. Then I realize it's just a tumbleweed of dog hair caught in the breeze.
There should be a "minute to win it" sort of contest that test how much garbage you can stuff in to a swing top garbage can before it will get thrown out. When the dogs are able to treat themselves to a trash buffet and I come home to licked-clean pot pie holders, ice cream sandwich wrappers, and chewed up dirty napkins...PLEASE, someone take out the damn garbage!
Why do I find empty pop cans, half-filled pudding cups with the spoon still in them, and a partially eaten rock-hard sandwich in the refrigerator? Why?! Just throw it away or eat the dang thing. Really? Do you think you're going to re-heat and eat ketchup covered fries?
My garbage disposal never smells right. I've used baking soda, ice cubes...and even reached my hand down in to those gloomy depths, even though every scary movie has told me not to, to find the source of the stench. Only to follow my nose to the sponge that was not rinsed of the salsa it was used to wipe up. I squeeze it into the overflowing garbage and hope the dogs don't eat it.
I have to soak the glass microwave tray for an entire day before melted cheese will scrape off of it. Use a freakin' plate people! Not to mention the Chef-Boy-Ardee splatter all over top, bottom and sides of the microwave (Are you getting an idea of our family's diet here?)
Dishes put in the dishwasher with half a meal on them? Why are you surprised when they're not clean after the dishwasher's run?
Living Room:
Why is it that the dogs feel the need to puke on the living room carpet? Even if the hardwood floors of the kitchen is 6 inches away? And why is the puke bright yellow or red? There is nothing that takes this out. And if it does, the carpet is 'rougher' than the rest of the room. Or green from whatever I used to spray on it.
There is a multitude of socks thrown in frustration everywhere. They end up over couch arms, across piano keys, and just lying in the middle of the floor because in our morning rush out the door, I must go through 6 pairs that are "lumpy" or "don't feel right." Thrown, because by the time I've told them 7 times to get their socks in on in the morning, we're all frustrated that I need to LEAVE NOW!
Weird that I need to vacuum at least 13 fly carcasses off of the floor, because no one knows how to shut the screen door!
Family room downstairs:
It stinks like pigs. Literally. Because my son promised me he would clean the guinea pig cage...and he doesn't. All they do is eat, pee and poop. I hate them. I fantasize about releasing them in our yard and letting them fend for themselves. Ungrateful pigs. I bought you a GLASS drinking bottle for Pete's sake!
When I clean, I have to deal with empty Xbox game holders laying open like an unread book and disks stacked in the middle of the floor. I pain-stakingly put them all in their rightful holders, and then am screamed at because the boys can't find them. (What's wrong with that picture?)
There is a pile of dad's socks to the left of his chair. He settles in to watch TV, and off the socks go, to be gently dropped in an ever rising pile of sock puppets.
The Boy's Room:
Scares the hell out of me. Enough said.
Of course all of this is coming from someone who vacuums backwards so that I can have the satisfaction of not leaving any footprints. I enjoy the vacuum streaks. It gives me a sense of accomplishment.
I like a clean house. Some day, I hope I know what that feels like.
I begged, pleaded, threatened my boys to please, please help me. I even lowered myself to a level I didn't want to come to, "You just must not care about me." Worked for maybe 2 hours. I wasn't asking much, just that they all clean up their OWN things...
Anyway, now that I'm done with school. Here's my pent up rantings in blog form:
Lets start in the bathroom, because that's so easy:
I don't care how accessible, how fresh, or how cold the water is in the dog dish, they insist on drinking out of the toilet. For our larger dog, it doesn't matter if the seat is down, he manages to stick his beak-y nose beneath the seat, lift it, drink and then lets the seat slam down when he's done. Usually at 2 in the morning. The smaller dog has very large lips. He dribbles everywhere.
 |
| We call him "Rip-Alot-Of-Lips" |
And honestly, I think Kamrin gets in trouble more often than not for not aiming when it's actually Ripley leaving little puddles from the reservoir he calls lips. Bo will actually follow you into the bathroom and stare at the opposite wall, while you use 'his' water bowl! If he could hum and tap his paw, he would. The minute you're done, he rushes over like he's been stranded in the desert for a week!
There is a cup FULL of kid-sized toothbrushes. Each with bristles as hard as a pumice stone because each child refuses to rinse the brush after brushing.
We have an empty toilet paper holder, and 3 rolls of toilet paper sitting on the bathroom counter. But you only notice after you've started peeing that it's just far enough out of each that you have to lift you butt off the toilet and risk being a part of the Ripley statistic.
When you get out of the shower, the fogged mirror has each boy's name written on it along with several zombie faces (and hearts...go figure).
While in the shower, the towel you so carefully hung on the hook to use when you got out, is now lying on the edge of the counter...used to wipe up the millions of small beard hairs in the sink. And it wasn't replaced. And the towel closet is over two soggy steps away.
Along that same line...every time I give the bathroom I deep scrubbing, there is some sort of siren song that compels my husband to shave, or clip nose hair, or give himself a haircut. A small poodle ends up in the sink.
On to the bedroom:
My husband's dirty clothes always end up right. next. to the bed. I imagine my husband as some sort of Frankenstein, with arms outstretch grumbling, "urmmmm, bed..." and the shorts just end up right there. I've tried putting a laundry hamper in there. Doesn't work. I tried 3 laundry baskets, maybe thinking he was just a bad aim. Still, they end up draped over the fan, or become a fire hazard over our TV hook-up box on the dresser.
I'm one of those weird people who have to have their sheets straightened before I can climb into bed. Kind of a "princess and the pea" concept. We have a deep mattress and special sheets with pockets. Those have to be tugged all the way down or I will be awake all night.
I don't care how hot it is, I have to at least have a sheet on me. All of me. No feet poking out, no diagonal sheets, and enough that it goes over the edge of the mattress. My husband will be satisfied if 30% of his calf is covered and the top blanket is 3/4 on the floor. I have, several times, come in, retrieved the ball of sheet (haha) from underneath his right leg and completely remade the bed while he slept.
My husband feels the need to sleep with 4 pillows. There might as well be a 3rd person in our bed. Hate it.
Kitchen:
Oh kitchen, there is so much I could say here. I like my kitchen clean, but it's a never ending battle. Like the tiny top edge of the long freezie pop that was cut off and abandoned, and then left to melt and stain my counter. Not to mention the 5 sticky knives that are laying next to it, because lord forbid you use the same knife for each Popsicle!
Or when I'm sitting at the kitchen table, dislodging my elbow from a nearly invisible syrup stain, and my heart jumps to my throat because I saw something scurry across the floor out of the corner of my eye. Then I realize it's just a tumbleweed of dog hair caught in the breeze.
There should be a "minute to win it" sort of contest that test how much garbage you can stuff in to a swing top garbage can before it will get thrown out. When the dogs are able to treat themselves to a trash buffet and I come home to licked-clean pot pie holders, ice cream sandwich wrappers, and chewed up dirty napkins...PLEASE, someone take out the damn garbage!
Why do I find empty pop cans, half-filled pudding cups with the spoon still in them, and a partially eaten rock-hard sandwich in the refrigerator? Why?! Just throw it away or eat the dang thing. Really? Do you think you're going to re-heat and eat ketchup covered fries?
My garbage disposal never smells right. I've used baking soda, ice cubes...and even reached my hand down in to those gloomy depths, even though every scary movie has told me not to, to find the source of the stench. Only to follow my nose to the sponge that was not rinsed of the salsa it was used to wipe up. I squeeze it into the overflowing garbage and hope the dogs don't eat it.
I have to soak the glass microwave tray for an entire day before melted cheese will scrape off of it. Use a freakin' plate people! Not to mention the Chef-Boy-Ardee splatter all over top, bottom and sides of the microwave (Are you getting an idea of our family's diet here?)
Dishes put in the dishwasher with half a meal on them? Why are you surprised when they're not clean after the dishwasher's run?
Living Room:
Why is it that the dogs feel the need to puke on the living room carpet? Even if the hardwood floors of the kitchen is 6 inches away? And why is the puke bright yellow or red? There is nothing that takes this out. And if it does, the carpet is 'rougher' than the rest of the room. Or green from whatever I used to spray on it.
There is a multitude of socks thrown in frustration everywhere. They end up over couch arms, across piano keys, and just lying in the middle of the floor because in our morning rush out the door, I must go through 6 pairs that are "lumpy" or "don't feel right." Thrown, because by the time I've told them 7 times to get their socks in on in the morning, we're all frustrated that I need to LEAVE NOW!
Weird that I need to vacuum at least 13 fly carcasses off of the floor, because no one knows how to shut the screen door!
Family room downstairs:
It stinks like pigs. Literally. Because my son promised me he would clean the guinea pig cage...and he doesn't. All they do is eat, pee and poop. I hate them. I fantasize about releasing them in our yard and letting them fend for themselves. Ungrateful pigs. I bought you a GLASS drinking bottle for Pete's sake!
When I clean, I have to deal with empty Xbox game holders laying open like an unread book and disks stacked in the middle of the floor. I pain-stakingly put them all in their rightful holders, and then am screamed at because the boys can't find them. (What's wrong with that picture?)
There is a pile of dad's socks to the left of his chair. He settles in to watch TV, and off the socks go, to be gently dropped in an ever rising pile of sock puppets.
The Boy's Room:
Scares the hell out of me. Enough said.
Of course all of this is coming from someone who vacuums backwards so that I can have the satisfaction of not leaving any footprints. I enjoy the vacuum streaks. It gives me a sense of accomplishment.
I like a clean house. Some day, I hope I know what that feels like.
Possibly a little-known fact: cats drink out of the toilet too. What is it with animals?
ReplyDeleteI sleep with multiple pillows to keep my head somewhat elevated so I don't snore. Also, I have neck problems. I only sleep with cats, though, so there's no-one to get annoyed.