In Which I Clean Behind the Fridge for Fun and Profit

Our fridge has some early-onset debilitating disease. Like me, but younger. And colder (unless you're counting her heart, says my snotty younger brother). But just as polluting to the ears.

You know when you are 16, and have a crappy 1971 VW Bug, and the starter is going out, because each morning you try to start it and it is getting harder and harder and harder, but you don't have the time or the cash to fix it and so you wait and then the one day you REALLY have to be on time, and it doesn't start?  That is our fridge, minus the bumper stickers and ash tray full of lip balm and spare change.

Each morning, we go into the kitchen for our morning harass-kids-to-get-out-of-bed-make-breakfast-feed-kids-make-lunches routine which involves 27 fridge openings.  Our beautiful fridge that was new when we moved in 4 years ago does not like our routine.  And I'm all, "Hey, at least you just have to keep our food cold, try actually living this life.  Just shut up and be our stupid fridge.  If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it."

Each time we open it, it gets slightly warmer, which makes the thermostat do it's thermostat-y job, which causes the motor to kick on to cool the whole thing, to keep up with our constant opening and closing. It does not like this, and wants to curl into a ball and die, preferably as soon as it is full of Christmas cheer.  I'm on to you, fridge.

Our preemptive strike was to call our landlord, tell them what was happening and give sound effects over the phone. But Sky King called, so they didn't get the cool sound effects. Sorry, landlord. Sky King has no imagination.
The fixer dude comes out, and he has to pull it away from the wall. At which put I begin to feel slightly self-conscious, because I do not clean behind the fridge. Well, that is not entirely true.  I DO clean behind the fridge, each time I move out of a place and take the fridge with me.  But not like on some strange cleaning rotation like organized people sometimes do. No, seriously, I hear that this happens.

He pulls the fridge back, and this is what we see:

In this pile of filth, there is: 2 magnets, 1 coupon good for 3 free Parmesan twists with any pizza order at Round Table Pizza, 3 pounds of broken glass from all the stuff Sky King the kids I break on the tile floor, and two dimes.

Now, the entire point of this post is centered around one question.

Who do I share the Parmesan twists with?
Why is there so much shit under my fridge?
Should I fire the housekeeper?
Should I even bother to clean this mess up?
Why don't I switch to all plastic containers, since I am such a klutz?

Do I retrieve the dimes?

The answer, of course, is yes. But not because of some stupid reason like "defacing money is a crime" or "a penny saved is a penny earned" or "the fixer dude will totally swipe it".

I lean over, scrape one off the floor which was almost permanently embedded in dust goo, and sweep the other up, risking life and limb while I sift through the broken glass to retrieve it. Because it is bad Juju to throw away money.

Many years ago (way back in the mid-1990's when I had moved to Tulsa OK to be close to my then-boyfriend who was going to flight school) I had another opportunity to clean.  I don't remember it specifically, I am just assuming there was an opportunity to clean, because there was a garbage can involved. No, you can't come study my home for a reality show about bacteria.

I was emptying/cleaning a drawer, looking for cash to do laundry looking for one last condom because Costco was out yesterday looking for a goddamn pen because I can never find one for some unknown reason. At the bottom of the drawer after all the good stuff was set aside and the drawer had been removed so I could dump all the rubber bands, dirt, lint, push pins, old razor blades, broken parts and a couple pennies into the trash, Sky King freaked. As in, "WHOA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING????"  I freak, because he rarely talks in ALL CAPS, which is why things work so well with us. I ask what the problem is. He very calmly says, "If you throw out money, even a penny, Karma will keep money from you." Oh.  How could I have been so stupid?

I crunch up one of my eyes and the corner of my mouth snarls, as if to say, "wha?".  He very calmly explains to never ever ever ever ever consciously throw away even a penny, because Karma will know, write it down in a little book, and remember for when you ask for a raise at work. Or something like that.

This is why I end up coating my fingers with $.23 worth of antibiotic cream and $.71 worth of bandages for 3 pennies.

Karma, you are a vengeful bitch.


And what happened to the two dimes?

There they are. We are $.20 closer to DisneyWorld. Or a house we don't rent. Or a pack of smokes, from back when we smoked, but really couldn't afford to.

Where will I put them?

Into the junk drawer full of push pins, old razor blades, and broken parts, of course.  Excuse me, into ONE OF OUR JUNK DRAWERS. Because we have 5. I'm rounding down.


Because I never learn.

A Real Conversation with Lazy Me

Me: Hey! Get off Pinterest and do something, like put away the mounds of clean folded laundry.
Lazy Me: Mkay. But just one more "See More Pins" scroll, then I'm so there.
Me: Lying whore, you pulled that on me hours ago...
LM: I know, and I am sorry. But really, for reals, I just need to find a pin of some awesome nails for my next mani, really....
Me: OK.  But no updating FB after that. Straight to the laundry pile you go...
LM: No prob.  I'm on it.
Me: :::schlepps away, to go do something helpful and/or constructive:::


LM: :::clackity-clack, clackity clack:::  (she said NOTHING about updating Blogger...Yesssss!)

And to quote a great modern philosopher, "Here's to the freakin' weekend, I'll drink to that"

Rhianna, you are Uh-Maze-Ing. And so timeless.

Where's That Thing I Need for the Thing??? I Think I Put it by the Thing-y...

Every once in a GREAT GREAT while I totally freak out over something stupid (I know.  Impossible to believe.  But it’s true).

This time was no different:  So there I was, giddy with the anticipation of fun family vacay, starting to think about packing for a road trip.  I figured it was a good time to look for, and charge, the two DVD players for each child. Along the way, I sometimes get a bit distracted. I was unpacking the players, and went searching for the charging cords. And I was like, “where the hell did I put that audio book about proper parenting? I really wanted to listen to it with Sky King. Maybe it will keep us from killing our children in a car after a 7 hour drive”.  So I begin looking.  I look high and low.  I look by the computer, where I am SURE I left it.

Then, I pull over a chair, and look ATOP the computer cabinet.  This is the indication that I am SURE Sky King has put it somewhere in his quest to “clean”.  My hackles raise (what ARE those, anyways?) because I am starting to panic that it is lost. Which cannot be.  I might just completely lose my shit over this. I have been teetering all week, what with Sky King working extra and the kiddos on a half-day. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Let me clarify: Sky King is typically quite fantastic.  However.  When he cleans, he likes to put things away so that you can’t see them.  Place like on top of the fridge, on top of the computer desk, and on top of the cabinet by the garage door are some favorites. Do you see a trend? You see, he’s 6’2”, while I am 5’3”.  I DON’T put things up high.  Monkey boy is gaining on me, but still not in the “hiding things up high from mom” realm.  Princess doesn’t put anything away, ever, so it’s not her.

So Sky King goes around the house, seeking the things I will need the soonest, or the things that are the most important, he stacks them all together and “puts them away”.  I rarely find them.  This time WILL be different.  I WILL find that audio book.  The lives of our children depend on it.

So in the middle of finding charging cords for the DVD players, I get lost on a quest to find the audio book that Sky King hid. Typical.  (Just making sure you’re still following me…)

2 hours in, I am growing more and more frustrated.  I have both kids fearful for their lives, searching as well, all the while listening to me curse their father. (Don’t worry, they are used to it, they won’t get more scarred.) I keep going back to the same places: the basket in the bathroom, filled with old Maxims; the basket in the family room, filled with old Allergy Today and Gluten-Free Living; the baskets on the cabinet of death (more about this later); the kitchen junk drawer; my craft drawers; my bag of trip treats (more about THIS later)for the kids.  Nada.  Zilch.  Nuttin’.  At this point in my mind, I have cancelled the trip, I am so angry.  I’m talking to myself, angrily arguing with Imaginary Husband. I’m stomping through the house, tearing through each potential hiding place like a deranged Mafioso looking for the flash drive that has the video footage of me offing the kingpin I just took over for.  Crap is flying, and I don’t care. I even considered calling Sky King and using the “mental imbalance” card, to get him home so the godforsaken CD set could be found.  But no.  I can DO THIS.

I go to the bookcases again.  I glance.  I peruse.  I search.  I scour.   Luckily, all my books are sorted by color. (Genre was too difficult and scattered, and I like how it looks---don’t judge)

THERE. IT. IS.  Staring at me, in the “Navy Blue” section. 

I think to myself, “Damn. That Asshole.  Well, the only thing I can think of is that he put it with books, because it is a recitation of a book. I guess that works. “.  Then.  Then, I had a teensy tiny glimmer.  It could have been me. That is MY kind of logic, not his. He’s more of a, “this pile of crap is all square-ish, and I’m near the fridge, so I will cram it up here” kind of a guy.  I’m a “audio book is a BOOK, gloves, hats and scarves are all outer wear” kind of a gal.

I nearly wept with the frustration that I may have done this TO MYSELF.  Yet, I decide not to tell Sky King. Not only am I still in a little bit of denial about my memory issues, but he thinks his memory issues are really bad, which they are,  . So he’s still the perfect scapegoat for things that aggravate me.

I had texted him, “Hey, where’s that audio book about parenting I TOTALLY need for our trip tomorrow?” about 1 hour in.  Now, I go back and text him again….”Found it. I’ll likely kill you in the morning.”

If he doesn’t get the “Princess Bride” reference, DIVORCE!!!

That, my friends, is how you do mental illness.

And, scene.    :::deep bow:::

I'm the Emotional Equivalent of the Oakland Raiders

This morning, I had some issues.  I won't go into detail because I am more ladylike than that.  Yes I am, you jackass.  Oh, right.  I see your point.  Either way, let's just say that my husband didn't download the "Period and Ovulation Tracker" app onto his Droid for nothin'.  I think it is the former Boy Scout in him, something about being prepared.

I had pretty much spent the entire morning being contrary, arguing, griping, bitching and ordering, all to no avail-(did these people in my house have a death wish???)

Soon, Sky King had disappeared, and I was finishing getting ready to take Princess to a round of birthday parties.  I figured Sky King was hiding. I wandered around the house, half hoping to apologize for being so horrid, and half to pick another fight.

I found him.  He came over to me (I was thinking he had finally lost it, and was planning on smacking me upside my head, thinking he would dislodge whatever cog or gear in my brain had gotten stuck).  Instead, he wrapped his arms around me, and said, "Don't worry, sweetie.  This will pass."

I'm thinking, "bastard checked his phone!  He is blaming this on my period!  That Jerk...oh, wait.  He's right.  Damn."

Instead, I say, "I'm sorry I'm so crazy.  I have no idea sometimes why you love me."

He responded with, "You're like the Oakland Raiders.  Most of the time, you are awesome.  Every once in a while, you drive me crazy.  But I will always love you."




I'm not sure if I should go, "Awwwwww...." or smother him in his sleep.