Thursday, September 16, 2010
Why Naps Are Not a Good Idea In My House
Image by Sean Molin | Photographer via FlickrSo yesterday, after my unfunny post about my instructor difficulties, I managed to get a hold of my academic advisor and she dropped me from that class.
Unfortunately, it was while I was still on the phone with her, so I couldn't go back and tell the guy that he is a sanctimonious, narcissistic fucktard what I really thought of him.
I'm chalking that up to the Universe making sure I didn't get kicked out of school burn bridges.
After that beginning to my day, and my adorable son using up every cute point he possessed to stay alive; I decided I needed a nap.
I was drained.
Seething hatred and parenting a toddler with the energy level of a meth-head with a Starbucks Double Shot in one hand and a to-do list in the other will do that to ya.
So I corralled the kid and told hubby that I was done for. He said that he and the roomie (yes, we still have him, just not in the house...usually) were going to go fishing... or BBQ; they hadn't decided yet.
I suggested fishing for two reasons.
A: The obvious peace and quiet that one cannot achieve when practically deaf people play video games.
B: I hadn't done all of the dishes yet, so I didn't want to add to the pile that was being effectively diminished throughout the day.
He and roomie left, and I went in to take my nap.
I must have needed it, because I fell asleep DEEP... for three hours.
John Phillip Sousa could have practiced in my bed during a tornado, and I would have only been the wiser because of the tuba tracks on the sheets in the tree across the street.
Apparently, that was long enough to go get three kinds of meat... burn the shit out of it, and eat as much of the charred remains as possible.
And to destroy a kitchen so completely that I would have paid the tornado and Sousa to destroy it rather than try to clean it.
There was a bath towel on the counter... W...T...F... is a bath towel doing on the kitchen counter?
FIY, the kitchen towels and the paper towels were put up in the now-empty cabinet above the counter.
*the look on my face at this point is reminiscent of what a 6 year-old looks like when Stephen Hawking has been speaking to the child for over an hour about quantum physics*
Every... E.V.E.R.Y. dish of every size was used and left wherever there was room; which wasn't in the sink btw, because the mopping sauce pot and all of the two-foot-long BBQ implements were sticking out of the sink.
Hey, at least they can't say that they didn't know where the sink was. They found it at least once.
Under the bath towel I found a counter with dried liquid-of-some-sort, liberally sprinkled with 11 herbs and spices and a few steak knives. The cutting board was moved over, so as not to get it dirty.
The stove looked like Madame Curie's lab puked on it... violently (cause you have to cook the mopping sauce on the stove, Duh!).
They left me steak. Which was awesome, cause I love steak and we haven't had any for a really long time.
Except it looked like it lost a bout with a very, very angry flame-thrower.
My jaw still hurts from dinner last night...and my eyes are bleeding from the sight of the kitchen...
And there is not enough coffee in the world for me to not envision a postal, blood-soaked ending to this scenario.