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50 Loads of Darks

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*Disclaimer- this post is romanticized fiction based loosely on actual events. Sort of.



Another Monday night and I was putting the kids to bed. Hubs was snoozing on the downstairs couch. A typical long day at the office has killed any energy he might have had for some gymnastics between the sheets. Okay, not gymnastics, but some spooning that leads to forking anyway.

I make my way to the laundry room to check to see if the towels in the dryer were in fact, dry. I hate mildewy towels. I pushed the button for ‘touch-up’ and went to the hamper to sort some more dirties for another load.

The husband’s darks. How in thee hell does a man have so many socks and shorts? All black socks to be exact. The hamper is in our master bath and is parked outside our walk-in closet door. I made two piles- husband’s black socks, and everything else.

Then I remembered I needed to jot down on my shopping list that we are out of cat food and postage stamps. If I don’t write it down now, I’ll certainly forget.

I go downstairs to write on my list. Then I see dishes of various ice cream vessels that have been left on the side tables and couch from where the kids AND Hubs had their evening bowls of ice cream in front of the TV. Sigh. Picking up dishes all over the house is a full time job. Why am I the only one who seems to remember to put them back in the kitchen?

Hubs is still snoozing. His jaw is slack to the point where he’s almost snoring and he looks pretty wiped. I walk up to him, lean over, just enough to put my saggy bosoms up to his face and whisper, ‘How about a little nookie nook?’  No response. I proceed to give him a Wet Willy in his ear and when he snaps awake tell him, “hey, wanna make yourself useful and meet me upstairs?”

Despite his initial pissed-off reaction, his expression softens and the look of realization crosses his face. I can imagine it was probably the same look he got at 13 when he looked at a Heather Thomas poster.

I put the cat in his room for the night, and call the dog upstairs where she makes her nighttime spot on our bed. I make sure the children’s bedroom doors are shut and I wash my face of the day’s makeup and oily grime.

Wait- did I ever jot down cat food and postage stamps on my shopping list? Oh geeze, I don’t remember. Oh well. I quickly brush my teeth. If hubs does in fact come upstairs for a little whoopie making, I better act fast because he’ll probably fall back to sleep if I dawdle too much.

He heads to the walk-in closet to put on his pajama sweat pants. I figure, now is as good a time as any. I hit the lights so it’s just me and him in the dark. I reach to feel around his mid-section and feel the elastic of his shorts. I creep my fingers just below the waist band.

He asks, “Here?”

I say, “Sure.”

He asks, “On the dirty clothes?”

I say, “I’m washing them anyway, what does it matter?”

He doesn’t ask anything after that. It’s hard for him to think with my hands in the right place.

I decide to speed things up, it is getting late after all. That alarm clock doesn’t wait for anybody, let alone sleep deprived middle aged married couples.

What am I standing on? Probably socks. I try all sexy-like to shimmy down my lady briefs. Not that he can see me anyway, since it’s dark, but our eyes are adjusting and I’m seeing some gray shadows to navigate around. Something is caught around my toe. Holding on to Hubs for support, I wrangle a pair of Fruit of the Looms (not mine) from underneath my foot. I kick around a pile of socks, definitely Hubs’ socks, and try to find a nice soft pile for us. There’s some shoes in the way and a couple of my handbags. A bigger walk-in closet would be really nice. Something along the lines of one of those Real Housewives of Beverly Hills closets with benches and fancy armoires. But now I’m getting distracted. Must focus on Hubs and trying to balance myself on this pile of dirty clothes. Maybe he should squat….? Hmm.. this is getting difficult.

If you think Monday night closet sex on a pile of dirty clothes is not sexy, then you are exactly right. But hey, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

And I gotta lot of laundry to do. That’s for sure.

Tune in next Chapter when Hubs decides to clean the garage in order to cash in on some marital ‘favors’.


Comfort in the Mundane

Who would have thought I would want a day doing laundry, dishes and PTA activities?

Well, when life throws a curve ball at you, the ordinary and dull become comforting.

My dad had an emergency heart procedure on Friday and it freaked the hell out of me. Sitting in the uncomfortable, unfashionable hospital, made me homesick for the cat box.

You probably know already that my parents mean the world to me. They are my favorite people. Other than my spouse and offspring, they are my rock. As Emma said to my mom, “Oma, you are the cup to my tea.” Yep. That pretty much sums it up.

My father is 81 years old and healthy as a horse. Well, he’s even healthier now that two of his arteries are cleared and working properly! He never complained of pain. We don’t have a history of heart disease. All of a sudden he felt fatigue sooner in the day than normal. Trips to the mail box winded him. The man never sits still and still climbs a ladder to the roof, despite my mother’s protests. But lately, he just didn’t have his zip.

Thank goodness he went to the doctor. My parents are very proactive about their health. They know these things after going through a lot with my sister, who is disabled and in their care. And they know from experience having their own health glitches along the way of life.

Last week I even blogged how thankful I was things were looking well for my folks and their ‘old people’ tests they had. At first, all seemed well with my dad.

Then Thursday, after a battery of tests, my mom called me at 4 in the afternoon as I’m driving Owen to soccer practice. I knew something was wrong. You know these things by your loved one’s voice. Her voice quavered as she told me dad needed to go first thing in the morning to the hospital for a stent procedure and because of the severity, possible bypass.


Hold. the. phone. I did not expect this.

So that night I made arrangements to change my PTA volunteer duties. Delegating is a beautiful thing people. I sent emails and kind souls offered to pitch in for our Book Fair to cover the cash register and supervise the kids.

Friends came to my call for help with Owen after school.

McSweetie had interviews and meetings or I know he would’ve worked from home. Emma came along with me because she wears her heart on her sleeve and couldn’t manage being in school not knowing what was going on. Being near to her Oma was what she needed. And my mom was grateful to have our company.

Hospitals are weird, horrible, wonderful places. Miracles happen in them. Doctors perform acts of God in them. But then, they can be awful, pain-filled places of death and sadness.

When I got off the elevator with Emma and we walked around the corner, I saw my dad and his shiny bald head sitting in one of the waiting room chairs. He was cool as a cucumber. Takes a lot to rattle this guy. Those English have a way of staying calm. We got some good hugs, and then the nurse came in to get him ready.

They moved the procedure back a couple hours to the afternoon. I hate that. You’ve already fasted for a procedure at a certain time, then you have to wait even longer? That is always so messed up.

The doctor came around and talked to us. We went to lunch and then waited.

Several hours later, the doctor returned after he was done and said the words, “everything went well.”

I love those words in a hospital. He explained the severity of the situation, that there were two blockages instead of one and that the angioplasty worked in the first one, and a stent was put in place in the second. Blood flow was back to normal and everything looked fine.


Serious sighs of relief and hugs and praises to God between my mom and I.

We started making our Thanksgiving plans and being so happy for the status quo to return.

And that’s when I thought how much I love the ordinary. I don’t like events that rattle my world. That shake up my routine. Routine is good. Creatures of habit we are.

We saw my dad soon after. He was awake and sipping juice. He looked pink and healthy. He was tired, but pleased.

He will, I’m sure, be glad to be home tomorrow to get back in his routine. To do what he does every day. The little things, how grateful we are to just get up in the morning, make the tea and oatmeal and go about our day.

When Emma and I were on our way home, it had been just over 24 hours my mom had called me with the news. How grateful I was for the turn of events.

And then I went home to do what I do. Make tea, dinner and put the load of clothes from the washer to the dryer. And scoop the blessed cat box.

Mom on Strike

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Dear Family,

This is not the NFL. No replacement refs here. No SCABS.

When you wake up in the morning, get your own damn waffle. You can reach the toaster.

Pack your lunch.

When you can’t find your socks, look in the drawer. Or the dryer, or the hamper. Have you ran the washing machine? It’s not magic, it doesn’t run on its own. Oh and don’t just load the blasted thing, put that shit in the dryer, then FOLD. IT. Yep. Guess what? Folding and putting the laundry away is THE BORING part. Uh huh. You may think ‘you’re all that’, putting them dirty clothes in the machine. But that don’t make you a hero.
The battle is in the taking those socks, making them into sock balls. Taking t-shirts that are inside out and putting them right side in.  Or out. Whatever. Oh dear GOD how does every motha fuckin’ shirt get inside out in the wash??? I don’t take off my shirts and put them over my head like that. Is that necessary?

Okay, moving on.

Garbage on the floor. Throw away your own furkin’ wrappers, kleenexes, band-aids, used ones especially, popsicle sticks, gogurt tubes…. oh my gads, is this a frat house??? Throw away all toe nail clippings. I shouldn’t have to ask you twice.

After dinner, if I’m at a PTA meeting, you know one of the many things I do for free, don’t just pile up the dishes on the counter over the dishwasher. Put them IN it. Put the pans in the sink. Put away any leftover food in the refrigerator. Oh, and this is big, WIPE. OFF. THE. COUNTERS. I know it’s hard. It can be yucky. What, all those crumbs and spills. Yeah, disgusting.

If I make the danged dinner, least you can do is clean up after it.

All your clothes and random belongings need to go up to your room. That means all of you. I’m tired of looking at your thermals, hoodies and soccer shoes. Why are there always socks in the family room? Hair accessories are the same. Do they multiply like bunnies? Why are there always bobby pins and hair elastics in every room of the house?

If you have a dish in a room of the house, other than the kitchen, put it away. I don’t want to find your milk glass in your bedroom two weeks later.

Toilet paper needs to be replaced on the roll. How many times do I have to say this? If you are using the last roll, go get several more from the bathroom cupboard.

If you use the last milk, go into the garage fridge, and get the next carton.

All tools need to be returned to their proper place. That means a roll of tape goes back in the office. A hammer goes back in the garage.

Please don’t leave Nerf weapons randomly on the stairs. Someone will trip over them. Okay, I will trip over them.

Now that we have that established, I think I’ll go to the spa, and then eat bonbons watching an entire season of Boardwalk Empire on DVD from the library.

Someone call for pizza.

If we were nudists that would solve my laundry problem.

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Of course that would require us to get more slip covers for the couches. Ew!! Yeah, gross.

Oh my gosh, can you just imagine Owen nude all the time? He would be so up in his butt and playing with this nuts like they were stress balls. Which they are. I mean, he’s fiddling with them, they’re balls… you get the idea.

Before I started blogging, I would complain on my Facebook page about the laundry. I don’t read single people complaining about their laundry. Married folks without kids might gripe a little. Wives complaining about folding socks and undershirts. Maybe a husband wondering what in THE hell is with the once a month underwear from the misses that looks like a crime scene. But it’s not until you have children that you feel the pain of laundry. The burden that comes with the constant loads of clothes, towels, sheets, stinky socks, underpants. My favorite is the hunt. When I go to Emma’s room and her hamper is empty, but the clothes are strewn about the floor and she complains she has nothing to wear that just fries my craw. So goes with McSweetie. He has an entire pile of dirties, but the hamper is empty.

Now I know I don’t have to take them to the river or anything and beat them on wash boards. The clothes. Not the family members. Although maybe that would make them better at helping me! It’s the same as dishes. There will always be dirty ones. There’s always laundry. Always. Until we start going naked, there will always be clothes to clean. If we stop eating, we can stop loading the dishwasher. I prefer eating. I also prefer garments that cover my privates. So I suppose I will continue to do laundry.

We haven’t planned on moving to any remote island or getting shipwrecked a la Blue Lagoon style. So laundry it is.

And like most normal people who stare at a laundry basket piled high with clean things, I get out my video camera and decide how to vlog about it. I mean, right? You do that too don’t you?

So here’s my ballad to the laundry. I look really sad. I think I’m just overwhelmed.

What an asshole. Look at him just sitting on those clean towels like that. Little turd.