Less Underwear

Wanna know how to piss me off? Spring an unannounced visit on me. You know the kind where everything needs to be neat and tidy? The owner of our house is refinancing. They called me to tell me an appraiser was coming to view the house today. I have a 6 month old, and we just got back from vacation 2 weeks ago. Which in baby math is like 2 days because it takes you 1,000 times longer to accomplish ANY task. I've been running around my house, shoving dirty underwear under beds, and clean clothes in random drawers.

His name is Julio. That's all I know. Julio, I want to stab you. You asked when a good time for me was. I said Friday, or next week. Not TODAY. You will not be offered any sweet tea.

Because of you, I had to wipe out the tub I shaved in yesterday. It looked like an etch-a-sketch exploded in the bottom of the tub. I was going to take care of that next week after using the shower only for the rest of this week because I was too lazy to clean the tub. I have 2 bags of dirty diapers that need to go in the wash, but I forgot about the load that was in there from 2 days ago. So, I have to wash those clothes like 10 times to get the funk out of them. Julio, I hate you.

Because I hate you, I am wearing my Grandma's glasses for the entire viewing. I will also be talking like Harry Carey to make you really doubt my ability to function as a human being. Perhaps I will add a noticeable limp. I haven't showered yet today. I don't plan on it until after Julio leaves. I don't like the idea of someone just coming into my house and looking in my closets. I'm not that good of a house keeper. I also have like 70 pairs of underwear. (I am all sorts of braggy) but not nice underwear. I am talking Mom pants. I also have like this weird thing, where I can scan a room and not see the random pair of folded underwear on my coffee table. Then, company comes and I realize I am having a conversation about their family vacation with a pair of my underwear between us. Sort of like a plate of cookies, but way more weird.

Julio, I hate you.

I think I need to own less underwear. That way I can keep track of them better. A few months ago, my friend found out she was pregnant. She had let me borrow some of her maternity gear, and in all the excitement, I gathered it all up to give back to her. While I was at it, I decided to do a goodwill search through my own stuff, and a throw away even goodwill would be insulted by this pile. So, in the midst of all of that, I packed up a box of her things. She came by, and when she left she took the box with her. 3 hours later I received a text from her husband saying "Uhhhh I just saw your underwear." I was immediately creeped out, and went to the windows to see if he was peeping in. No, he wasn't. I had mistakenly given my friend a pair of my underwear. I AM AWESOME. You are welcome friend. I love you, this is a gift from the bottom of my heart. Which coincidentally coincides with my crotch.

I also just found 2 pairs stuffed in the seam of the couch. You would think that I had some sort of crazy life going on with lots of exotic escapades. Nope. I just clearly can't keep track of all my underwear.

Julio, this is ALL YOUR FAULT.

Vacation Meltdown Continued

Remember when you were in middle school and you wanted to go to the teen dance, but didn't want your parents to drop you off? You didn't want anyone to see you show up in the 1984 maroon Volvo station wagon that didn't have any seals in the windows? No? Just me? Too specific? I guess I still have a little bit of that left in me.

I kind of liked the idea that I was normal. ish. My Mom has been around Chad's family twice. For short periods of time. Nothing like a week. The 7th grader in me is fearful of the un-cool quotient that is about to occur. Except this time, I can't get back at anyone by grinding with a boy in the middle of the school gymnasium. Well, I guess I could, but who would care? It would be Chad. That's old news. I guess I feel like this is all sort of rushing at me too quickly. They've only known me 5 years. I think this is moving to quickly. Maybe we should take a break. (that second part just comes out after the first part out of old habits)

Truth is, I enjoyed riding the wave of normal. Chad's family is just plain normal. That's sort of what scares me. Is that they will have to interact with my family. I mean, I guess it won't be THAT bad after the birth process. There's a lot less vagina involved this time...well, a whole lot less of mine at least. I can't guarantee that the word won't escape certain people's lips. <- haha

Between the 12 times that I have had to tell my Mom that the bedrooms will have to be decided when we get there out of logistics of 2 dogs and a kid, she still continues to ask. Why? Because she wants the king bed with the master bath. She's also convinced our house has an elevator? I guess I am at my grrrr point because for the past week she has been sending me links to my email, to which I am like OHHH! EMAIL FOR ME!!! to see it's a link to look at a freaking front door. To which I respond, "I like that one, I am out. Please stop asking me about this. I do not care." To which she responds, "Imagine what it's like to be me and have to pick out a door you don't really like, and then have to spend money on it." To which I reply, "Imagine not caring, AND it's not your door."

I just hope this vacation isn't filled with quandaries about front doors, and suggestions on the things I shouldn't be doing with Charlie. Chad and I need a vacation. I want her to be there, but I want her to be normal. If I said that to her, she would be like "I AM NORMAL. THIS IS HOW ALL PEOPLE SHOULD BE!"

Freak out level: 9

Vacation Meltdown

I come from a family of germ a phobes. When I was growing up I was the kid at the Doctor's office looking sad because I wasn't allowed to play with the toys. I remember going to the pool with a friend when I was like 10. My friend brought over all these inflatable toys to take with us, and my Mom made her blow them all up herself. Needless to say, she was not much fun after blowing up the inflatable raft. Mostly because she looked like she was going to pass out. I wasn't allowed to borrow bathing suits, and I was under the impression that if you borrowed some one's chapstick, you would die.

Now that I have a kid, I know how expensive the whole toy thing can be. I am very open to second hand goods. My mom has been AWESOME about doing the whole garage sale thing, because down here in a southern military community the garage sales have things like light bulbs and VHS tapes. Nothing useful like kid toys. So, she has gotten some really awesome stuff. However, it's a double edged sword. She's a complete germaphobe, but somehow she sees nothing wrong with used plush toys. I tried to explain that the only way they are acceptable is if they can be machine washed. She bought something recently that can't fit in her washer, and she told me that she would just wipe it down with wet wipes. My brain is exploding.

Do you want to know what scares me beyond anything else in this world?

Dish rags.

If I had to ask one question to every person to decide if the friendship would work, I would ask them a 2 part question:

1. Do you use a dish rag/sponge to wash dishes?

2. Do you re-use it/ let it dry out on the basin divider or sink faucet?

I know I have to go to other people's houses, so don't worry. I know this is crazy-town talk. Don't feel self conscious. It's just that I need people to know about this, and at least think about it.

If you answer yes to these questions, I have a phobia. It's a terrible one. Unless you're washing your dishes with straight bleach and a splash of soap, I am throwing up in my mouth at the thought of your dish rag. I will politely eat something you offer to me, but inside I am thinking about that dishrag. You might as well be using a pair of dirty panties for all the difference it makes in my brain. Mostly if you re-use it. Sponges are just as bad, unless you microwave it after every use. There is nothing worse then the smell of a dirty sponge. Well, ok there are a lot of things that smell worse, but the freak out level is high when it comes to sponges. 

I don't use them because to me, you wipe off germs and food from that plate, and then you basically ask it to grow some friends and contribute some e-coli to the next plate/pot you wash. It's basically like putting your mouth on the drinking fountain. 

My mom is a dish rag/sponge person. When she comes to visit she has this weird ability to search out the ONE dish rag I own. I have it to to scrub dried terd remnants off the floor. Why is it dried? Because after I step in the terd barefoot, I have a small panic attack and hobble off to the sink to wash my foot with bleach and then forget about the smooshed bit left behind. Dried terd doesn't scrub off with paper towels, and hand towels don't go anywhere terds. She uses it when she's here. I love that she cleans up the kitchen, but she does it with what I consider to be a piece of cloth covered in poop. 

Dish rags in my opinion are the AIDS of the cleaning world. It blows my mind that she uses them. She flys with vaseline around the openings of her nose to somehow deflect the flying germs. She keeps her money in a plastic baggie so as to not contaminate the rest of her purse belongings. Yet, she uses a dish cloth. I have paper towels everywhere in my kitchen, and hand towels, and a scrubber that gets bleached that dries on the window sill until the next use. My dish rag is in the back far corner of my sink cupboard. It's like she KNOWS I have dishragitis. 

Why am I have a freak out over this? We are about to go on an epic adventure my friends. Chad, Charlie, the dogs and I are all going to spend the week with my parents....AND Chad's family.....under ONE roof. The amount of interference I am going to have to run is making me freak out. My own phobias, plus the weird things my family does....my brain is exploding inside. 

I know Chad's family reads this blog, so in advance:

I don't know why she said that, she probably didn't mean it that way. 

I don't know why she doesn't share bathrooms.

I don't know why she gets angry over other people watching tv and she can't watch what she wants.

I don't know why she doesn't go to the beach. 

I don't know why she doesn't swim.

Yes she knows how to swim.

She's an excellent cook.

She's extremely giving.

She cares....a lot.

She wants to make you happy.

She loves children.

She's funny.

Just giggle inside at the weirdness. It's worked wonders for me. 

Ahhhhh! My freak out scale is at a 7. I will write more when it gets to 9. Which will be tomorrow. Because then I will only have 2 days left to prepare, and catch two very small dog's urine to take to the vet because they seem to think that my house is a port-o-pottie and I am very wishfully thinking they have UTI's and aren't just jerks.

The end.