Here I sit, with a sink full of dishes and a floor in dire need of vacuuming, thinking of nothing but mindless drivel. That in itself is not unusual, thinking of mindless drivel that is, not neglecting my chores. I am never mindless nor neglectful, or maybe I am, I didn’t used to be. No matter, it’s not like I can be objective on the subject. I’m fairly certain I just contradicted myself, 2 points for mindlessness.
I shouldn’t refer my daily housework endeavors chores. The word chore implies something you do to get your allowance. Somehow I doubt I’ll be getting five bucks at the end of the week.
I’m not sure what I could even buy for five dollars these days. Maybe a new hair brush. Mine hurts my head if I’m not careful, half those little colored balls have fallen off the tips of the plastic bristles or been plucked off, one by one in the night by some unseen maker of mischief. Of course, it could simply be that it’s old, I tend to hang on to items past their usefulness date. Not much of a spending spree I suppose.
It doesn’t matter, I hate my hair most of the time anyway. If the whole world was just bald I’d be a happy woman. I’d just shave it all off, but I’d probably have a misshapen head or something and look in the mirror every day and complain about that.
I’m not much of a complainer. I’m not. Besides, I don’t think anyone around here really listens to me all that often. My husband. Now he’s a complainer. Does anyone else know how hard it is to be married to a perfectionist? I used to be one, I’m over it now. So over it.
My husband is a great guy once you get past the fact that he’s a man. Don’t get me wrong, no man haters here, I have nothing against men. I love men, love, love, love them. I gave birth to three of them. Can you imagine what my bathroom looks like? I don’t get it, that thing cannot be that difficult to aim. Point and shoot boys.
When they where little a friend of mine suggested putting fruit loops in the potty to use as tinkle targets. It was great until I realized no one had flushed yet the soggy little rings of artificially flavored sweetness had disappeared, (insert collective eww here). I still have no idea who the culprit was.
My kids have always been really picky eaters, well, if you don’t count the fruit loop thing. They found some chocolate peanut butter in the store the other day and talked me into buying it. I have their undying adoration for the rest of the week now.
I bought some tea for myself, they say it’s relaxing. I don’t know who they are but I listen to them sometimes. I bought the Sleepy Time tea. I sipped a cup while reading a few chapters in my new book, the one I got for my birthday two years ago, and drifted off to sleep. It was wonderful until I awoke about an hour later with an extremely urgent need to use the powder room. A cup of tea will make you pee. They don’t print that part on the label.
I would have woken up anyway. I always do. I haven’t slept through the night in over twenty-four years. First it was late night feedings and diaper changes, then the bad dream phase. When they did sleep through the night I would wake up worried because they’d not woken and rush in to check on them. Just when I’d get used to it, a new bad dream phase would begin. Now late night television, video game marathons and the occasional bad dream often keep me from having those restful nights I so deserve.
I have a dream, well, more like a fantasy . . .
I envision myself waking around noon, gliding to the lilac scented tub that’s been drawn for me and submerging myself in warm bubbles. My husband comes in with a breakfast tray filled with fruits and champagne. He tells me the kids have gone out for the day and he will be in the garage building me bookshelves, I smile and dismiss him. I towel off and drape myself in a silken robe. Gracefully, I make my way into my spotless living room and do a Sound of Music type of spin before sinking onto the couch for a well deserved nap. I awaken to the cherubic laughter of my family as they return home. My husband retrieves the television remote for me before he begins to prepare dinner. After I’ve eaten my fill, I escape the pressures of the long day in a hot shower, then slide into bed and dream the sweetest of dreams.
But, that is a rather far stretch from reality. Far, far stretch. I live in the real world with popcorn under my feet, I didn’t even know we had popcorn. I guess I’d better lug out the old Dirt Devil and get to work. I can drivel in silence while I scrub the pans . . .
Crystal R. Cook