Another amazing moment in my parenting career
How has your summer been going?
Mine has been going superbly. Seriously. Insane. Just having fun with the kiddos. I've made statements about self-harm to Big K after he gets home from work only a handful of times, which is pretty good for me. I mean, seriously, it's been good. I have a garden that I am SUPER PUMPED about. I chase my kids. We do stuff. I thought it was awesome to live in an area with some population in the winter...well, let me tell ya kiddies, these people knock it out of the park in the summer! Free events and parks & rec crap and farmer's markets and, well, I don't know. My mind is officially boggled by my options for recreation. Awesome.
So today I celebrated all these amazing outdoor opportunities by causing a spectacle with myself in regards to my linoleum. I mean, why wouldn't I?
Yes, yes, yes, there's some linoleum in this house. Only a tiny bit. And it is just as godawful as you'd expect. The laundry room, downstairs half bath, and entry area from our attached garage into our kitchen are all attached in a row and are all decked out with some 20+ year old cream colored linoleum with a sprinkling of a color I like to call "Early '90's godawful blue." It's terrible. Compounding its terribility is the fact that it is the filthiest area of my home. I mean, when I do laundry, I'm like laundering the remains of slaughtered hogs out of my kids' clothes. Or it at least looks like it (Sorry for the carnivorous imagery there...it was just truly the most apt comparison.) The catbox and cat feeding area are in the laundry room. Gag. We trap our dumb hound in the half bath when we're out and about, so there's a dog bed and chow dishes in there too, and, well, that fucker is disgusting. And then you have the entryway from the garage which takes about 10,000 footfalls per day and is right next to the shoe/coat closet, and well, the whole area is just a repository of filth.
Cream-colored linoleum. Shit.
Truly, I don't know how the previous owners of the home kept it looking so nice (well, so clean...I can't imagine it ever looked nice) for so long. But I can assure you that it did not involve my children or my cats or my dog.
Anyhow, I sweep this area like 9 times per day just to keep wayward dog chow, cat chow, and kitty litter from forming a crunchy paste on the floor. I don't know why I bother. I mop the area with a Sw*ffer-like product every couple days. It still looks filthy. I ignore it. I ignore it. And then I ignore it.
Well, today I felt the need to actually deep-clean the godforsaken floor decently. For the first time in at least 6 months. Because it's 70 degrees and sunny out, and that's a rational thing to do, right?
I stared at the brown-ish tinge on my "cream-colored" floor and felt the need to dump a little bleach in my scrub bucket so I could get down on my hands and knees and scrub with a rag while getting myself up close and personal with some carcinogens. I normally do not clean with bleach, but it just absolutely looked like it needed, well, to be bleached. I was compelled to do the sort of cleaning job you'd want to do if a corpse had been rotting there for weeks in the summer. Yes. That kind of filth.
So I was dressed semi-decently (by which I mean I was wearing my only pair of jean shorts that aren't falling off my hip-less body). I am not good at not ruining things, so I decided I would not wear these jean shorts or the semi-decent top I was wearing while aggressively dealing with bleach. I deemed it appropriate to disrobe.
Down to this, in a 42D...the same size all the hot truckers wear. (I need you to know if you click on that link that mine is in the print festively named "Hot Summer Animal." Very apt.) And yes, as a matter of fact, I do recommend this bra quite heartily.
So Phook was sitting at the kitchen table concocting an art project while the other two kids did something upstairs that probably involved an incendiary device, and I said to her, "If anyone comes over, don't let them in. I'm going to be cleaning in my underwear." (This was important to say, because we've got neighbor kids coming over here constantly. It's like whack-a-mole with other people's kids in this house.) I said this casually, as if it was normal.
The kid stared at me with a fully opened mouth. Not just slack-jawed, but a wide-open mouth with her whole face just conveying utter shock and disbelief. To hilarious effect. I said, "Sorry. Mom is crazy, buddy." She thought for a minute and replied, "Don't say sorry. I like that you're crazy."
Okay. Seriously. I took that as the hugest compliment. I mean, we all acknowledge that I'm crazy, so we're good there. I just like that she knows it and likes it. It was awesome.
So I proceeded with my not awesome task in my Hot Summer Animal printed underthings, and a few minutes later Parkie came down the stairs and found me scrubbing away. Her reaction was to say, "Whoa. Mom. Um. I don't know what you're doin' right now but I need a snack." Of course I found this priceless as well. The child acknowledged that I was being a big psycho, but my weirdness didn't even break her stride and of course a snack took precedence. I outsourced that to Phook rather than bleach the kid's animal crackers with my filthy dirty bleachy man-hands, and I have no idea what she ended up eating. Probably wild game. Well, suburban wild game. Songbirds, labradoodles, that sort of shit.
The final child revealed himself a few minutes later, came around the corner to find me aggressively scrubbing the subterranean toilet area. He calmly inquired, "Mom, why are you wearing your swimsuit?" Okay, that one was my favorite of all. God bless Bigs for giving me enough credit that he considers me willing/able to wear a two-piece. Seriously, God bless that optimistic little man.
I don't know. Maybe this is one of those stories that will be lost in translation, but I thought this was comedy gold.
I gotta go. I need to put this activity into my My Fitness Pal app as "vigorous cleaning"...I'm guessing it will give me enough caloric credit that I can tuck into some nachos up in this hizzy. Lord knows I've been harboring one of those jars of awesome/nasty Tostitos Salsa Con Queso for months waiting for a special occasion, and on this day I've earned it.
And as a final aside, I'd like to say the floor still looks like shit. But at least it's not harboring MRSA anymore.
I shit you not. As I was re-reading this post before publishing it (eating nachos, I'll add), my dog went in the bathroom and nosed his chow dish off of the sink where it had been during this whole episode, spraying dog chow mixed with my kids' lunch remains mixed with airborne pathogens all over the freshly bleached floor. This is my life.