Hell Is Full Of Brimstone. And Hard-Water Stains. Probably.

I’ve mentioned before how I loathe cleaning bathrooms.  But I’ve got it down to a science.  The science of doing it wrong.  Observe:

1. Bring toilet cleaner and all-purpose cleaner upstairs to the bathroom.
2. Realize you left the paper towels downstairs.
3. Trek all the way downstairs for the paper towels, and then back up to the bathroom.
4. Realize you also left the toilet brush downstairs.
5. Contemplate simply sticking your hands in the toilet and using paper towel to clean it.
6. Realize this is a disgusting notion.
7. Go back downstairs once more for the toilet brush, and back up again.
8. Ponder that an organized person might keep all bathroom-cleaning supplies upstairs in the bathroom.
9. Lament that I’m not that organized.
10. Put toilet cleaner in the toilet bowl, and let it sit to do its work.
11. Start scrubbing toothpaste stains out of the sink.
12. Realize you forgot to brush your teeth that morning.
13. Brush your teeth.
14. Start scrubbing the toilet, mercifully, with the toilet brush.
15. Find out there are hard-water stains that won’t scrub away.
16. Contemplate going to the store to buy hard-water stain remover.
17. Decide that I can live with hard-water stains.
18. Move on to the bathtub.
19. Scrub  walls of the tub surround.
20. Wonder how to clean the floor of the tub surround without getting wet.
21. Roll up your pants legs and scrub the floor of the tub surround.
22. The floor of the tub surround won’t come completely clean.
23. Curse.
24. Decide to sweep the bathroom floor.
25. Go downstairs for the broom.
26. Go back upstairs and sweep.
27. Contemplate mopping, but the mop is downstairs.
28. Curse. 
29. Decide to skip mopping.
30. Breathe a sigh of relief.  The hellish task is finally at an end.

There you have it. Cleaning the bathroom in 30 easy steps.

But in the future, I’m delegating this chore to Satan’s minions.  I’m sure they’ll thank me for it.

Superwoman Is Not Available. Please Hold For The Next Representative, Or Leave A Message After The Beep.

A while back Preschooler received a little care package in the mail from a friend.  The package included a “letter,” a few stickers, and a tootsie roll.

“Crap!” I thought.  “Now WE have to send something! “ I scanned the room to see what was available.  All I saw was a handful of fortune cookies left over from last night’s Chinese food, and some free address labels from the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.

I had Preschooler write a letter and draw a picture for her friend.  Then I ate the fortune cookies and paid the utility bill.

I try so hard to do it all.  I’d like my house to be company-ready all the time.  I’d like to plan arts & crafts activities for my kids and arrange spectacular and enriching play-dates and outings.  I want to prepare balanced, healthy, home-made lunches and dinners.  I want to write for my blog, and read other blogs.  I want to work on other writing projects, and plow through the ever-growing pile of books to read.

I am capable of doing all these things. 

But I am not capable of doing all these things all of the time.

If my house is clean, it means I spent the day cleaning instead of playing with my kids.

If my kids are filthy by the end of the day, it means I spent the day outdoors with them, and my house is probably a wreck.

The days I don’t blog are the days I’m actually getting REAL LIFE things done.

And if I make a home-made meal, I miss out on after-dinner family time cleaning up my kitchen.

I know there are solutions to this.  But it took me a full year of stay-at-home parenting to realize how much pre-planning it takes just to be “normal.” 

Take one day a week, and make it your “going out” day.  Plan ahead for something to do with the kids that day.

You can make a home-made dinner in the crock-pot, or put together a casserole ahead of time so all you have to do at the end of the day is heat it up.

If you could just get your house CLEAN, you can keep it that way by just taking a half-hour each day to tidy up.

You can always wash the dishes after the kids are in bed.

Plan for time during the day or evening where Husband can keep the kids out of my hair for half-an-hour so I have time to read, or write, or do something else just for myself.

I take this advice some of the time.  And I'm with it, some of the time.

The rest of the time, I lose my minivan at the zoo, and don't find it for 36 hours.  More on that later.

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UPDATE: This Is Why Doing Things Is Not In My Best Interest. PART TWO.

.... So Angela, just HOW did you break your toe?  Here it goes.

We arrived home from that disastrous trip to the zoo.  Preschooler was placated by the promise of eating popsicles outside and playing in the front yard of our condo (remember mistake #3)?  Again, I shouldn’t have promised anything.  I shouldn’t rely on my ability to DO THINGS.

We walk inside our house only to find ... maintenance workers cleaning our gutters.  Not cleaning the neighbor’s gutters.  Not a note that they will cleaning our gutters tomorrow.  No.  Their ladder is parked outside my kitchen window, all our things are moved off of the patio and onto the lawn, and they are using my patio table to store their tools.

We can’t play outside.

After bombarding Preschooler with more popsicles and lollipops AND finger-paint, I convey the whole story to my sister, who wisely says:

"Please stay home and do nothing but watch tv with your babies... ok?"

But do I listen to her? No. Because I am committed to DOING THINGS, and figure that if I’m stuck inside I might as well clean my filthy house.

This shall be known as mistake number four.

So, I wash my dishes.  I clean my kitchen.  I dust my living room.  I stub my toe on a chair.  My toe turns purple and swells up.

"GAH! That hurt! Oh crap! Jesus Christ!"

One hour later... "Damnit! It hurts even more! What the hell?"

Another hour later.... "Ok, I am in serious pain.  This involves tears.  The last time I was in pain that caused tears, I was giving birth.  Crap!  I'm going to urgent care."

Honest to God, on a scale of one to ten, where one equals "I feel happy!" and ten equals "OMG I'm in labor GET ME AN EPIDURAL RIGHT NOW. WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M TOO FAR ALONG FOR AN EPIDURAL? GAAAAAAAAAH!" this pain was about a seven.  Please consult this expert pain chart (created by Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half) for a more detailed explanation.


So I head off to urgent care only to find out I broke my toe. But I didn’t just break my toe.  I chipped it.  Now their is a piece of bone fragment floating around in the middle toe on my right foot.

Again, I must ask:

Middle toe on my right foot means I have to hobble around on my heel, and now my heel hurts.

Middle toe on my right foot means I can’t drive, because I can’t put pressure on that foot.

Middle toe on my right foot means I need to be baby-sat, because the vicodin I take for the pain makes me loopy and exhausted, and oh yeah, I can’t walk.

Lesson learned:  NEVER TRY TO DO THINGS AGAIN.

Update:  Seeing as I broke my toe on Tuesday, and it is now Friday, I was tired of going stir-crazy and decided to go for a walk with my girls.  Don't judge - I was barely limping at all.  Actually, judge.  Because naturally Toddler bolted for the street, and I had to run after her.  Now I'm in serious pain again.  Apparently not only am I bad at DOING THINGS, I'm also bad at NOT DOING THINGS.

Why Use The Coat Closet When You Have A Perfectly Good Banister Available?

Husband and I have never been good at living like functional adults.  Common organizational and housekeeping practices reveal themselves to us as pure, unadulterated nodes of brilliance.

For example, when we moved into our current abode, instead of utilizing the hall closet, we just threw our shoes in the corner, and hung our coats and bags on the stair banisters. 

A couple months later, we remembered we had a perfectly good coat tree in the basement.  We brought it upstairs, and lo and behold - the coats were no longer thrown haphazardly on the stairs!  Brilliant!

Now the coat tree groans under the weight of my purse, diaper bag, backpack, Preschooler’s backpack, and 329 coats. Suddenly, Husband had a flash of brilliance - Hooks!

He put four hooks on the wall.  Now all our bags hang on hooks on the wall, and our coats are on a coat tree, and our shoes, well, they’re still heaped on the floor.

Husband and I turned and looked at each other and thought, “Wow!  We’re just like real people now!”

Then Preschooler noticed the hooks.  They BLEW HER MIND.

Preschooler: “What’s that?  How is mommy’s purse up there?”

Husband:  “Look, honey.  HOOKS!”

Preschooler: “WOW!!!!!”

Apparently Husband and I forget that we are no longer in college, and can afford to go to a store and buy something we need, as opposed to having to improvise using old cardboard boxes and aluminum foil.

And it is because of that, that our children will continue to be amazed by normal household objects, well into their adult years.

Classy.

I’m No Cleaning Guru. But At Least I Know Better Than To Drink A Mopped-Up Soda

It’s been a long day.  I’ve been puked on, pooped on, yelled at, and then I stepped on a piece of cold, slimy, banana in my bare feet.

Which reminded me, either our carpet was made out of crushed Froot Loops, or I needed to clean.

I vacuumed, but then my children ate more Froot Loops.  I pretended not to see anything.

I also needed to mop.  I don’t have a mop.  We had one of those old-fashioned wring mops at some point in our lives, but it left us.

Screw this!

I’ve tried the Swiffer mop before, but the sprayers always miss the floor and I end up expending way too much energy trying to scrub stains out. I'm aware that I am the only person in the universe that has this problem.

You’re doing it wrong.

I like the old-fashioned wring-mops, but we don’t have a bucket either.  And I'm not buying a mop AND a bucket.  Not in this economy.

Then there was ... the Smart Mop.  

BEHOLD!!

Look, it’s made out of dead ShamWows! 

You can use it as an umbrella!

It picks up ketchup AND dog hair AT THE SAME TIME!

But then....

You can use the Smart Mop to wipe up a spilled soda, wring it out into an empty glass, and DRINK THE SODA.

I like soda.  Coke Zero and I go WAY back.  As a teenager, I used Sprite to hydrate after excersise, like some some sort of derranged butterfly who was also a lousy tennis player.

But I don’t think I should be drinking soda through a mop.  Or mop my floor with soda.  Or something.

I guess I'll have to buy that bucket after all.

Edited to add: I do not promote the Smart Mop, nor do I work for the Smart Mop people. I'm pretty sure the folks at Smart Mop don't know me.  If they did, that would be kind of creepy.  In any case, I think their product sends the wrong message to this nation's impressionable youth.  I shall write my local Congressman. 

This just in: Husband just informed me that in the infomercial they claim "If you've got wood, you'll love this!" Awesome.