Friday, April 13, 2007

A letter to the poltergeist living in my house

Dear Dark Spirit of the Underworld,

It's time we had a heart-to-heart. While you may have been here first, your presence is no longer welcome in my home. Things have gotten way out of hand lately. It was fine in the beginning when your pranks were small. The husband and I chuckled at your shenanigans at first.

"Oh, look at the mess in the kitchen. Wonder who did that?" (wink, wink)

"Would you check out the mess in the bathroom! Can't imagine who did that!" (nudge, nudge)

"Wow, I can't believe what a disaster the kids' bedroom is. I have no idea how it got so messy." (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

"Check out the living room. There's half a box of cereal in the couch cushions. I have no idea how that could have gotten there." (chuckle, chuckle)

"Ha ha, does anybody know how a pair of Underoos ended up hanging from the ceiling fan in Mom and Dad's bedroom? We can't figure it out!" (giggle, giggle, SNORT!)

Yes, for a while, it was amusing. We laughed quietly to ourselves as we cleaned up the messes. It was no big deal. You were a novelty and novelties are to be enjoyed.

But no more! I am sorry, O Servant of the Dark Overlord, but you must go now! There is no excuse for what you've done to my house. I am humiliated when people drop by unexpectedly because it is always such a disaster in here. We can no longer live in a home that looks like wild monkeys have taken up residence. I am tired of crunching cereal underfoot as I trudge through the house in the middle of the night heading to the bathroom. I am sick to death of finding things where WE all know they don't belong. I'll give you some examples: dirty clothes everywhere, toys in the dishwasher, food in every crack and crevice of every room. Your little games are no longer funny either. Turning the refrigerator to the highest setting and the freezer turned to the lowest (thus freezing and thawing all the wrong foods) isn't a game. Playing with the buttons on the dishwasher isn't a joke to us. Screwing up the color on the TV gets on our nerves. Flooding the bathroom is not a game. Oh yes, the list is long and we are frustrated. What might be funny to you is not amusing to us. Please stop playing your little games and leave us in peace.

I realize that you may feel you are being unjustly accused, but I don't know where else to place the blame for these things. I asked the kids and they said they don't know how things got so bad here. They proclaimed their innocence of the charges. I know it wasn't Dad or me, so that leaves us no other option for placing blame but at your feet.

I would be more than happy to write you a reference that you can include with your resume when you seek other employment. I just think it's time we parted ways. You've done all you can here. It's time you moved on to another family. I'm sure there is some family out there with small kids who would be perfect for you. We'll get together and discuss your severance package later today. But for now I think it would be best if you left. Please don't make me call security.

I wish I could say it's been a pleasure working with you, but that would be a lie.

Happy to be rid of you,


PS. If you could clean up the mess you made last night before you go, I'd be really grateful. I'm not the maid, you know.

Monday, April 2, 2007

Spring Break

Spring Break takes on a whole new meaning when you're a parent. No trips to Daytona Beach, no flights to Cancun, no breaking out the bikini and going crazy for some MTV reality show. (Not that I ever did ANY of that when I was younger. I was really boring.) We're off school this week and this is what my "Spring Break" will consist of: fighting with the kids, begging them to NOT trash the house, breaking up fistfights between the older two, trying to keep them from running down to the road and playing in traffic and beating my head against the wall out of sheer frustration. Oh yeah, I'm also cleaning and fixing up my laundry room. Whoop-de-friggin'-doo.

The only girl goin' wild around here will be my one year old daughter. She's a real party animal: throwing Cheerios, playing in the TV cabinet, pooping in public, and occasionally taking her top off and flashing the world. I'm pretty sure Joe Francis ain't gonna be knockin' on my door any time soon. Oh dear Lord, I just PRAY she never ends up on a commercial in the middle of the night, flashing her ta-tas and saying "I've never done this before!". I don't think my heart could take it.

Sunday, April 1, 2007

Just when you thought I couldn't get any weirder...

...I go and post this little gem:

I wrote an obituary for a coffeemaker today. No, you didn't read wrong. An obituary for a coffeemaker. Just writing those words is strange.

My father called me this morning and told me there'd been a death in the family. I was immediately concerned, until he said that the unfortunately deceased was Mr. Coffee, his beloved coffeemaker. Yeah, I said "beloved coffeemaker". For some bizarre reason, my father was incredibly attached to this stupid coffeemaker that should have been put out to pasture about 10 years ago (at least). He had it for 17 years--a $10 coffeemaker lasted 17 years. It was so bottom-of-the-barrel cheap it didn't even have a clock or an auto-start. My father even went so far as to splice a new plug onto it in a Dr. Frankenstein-esque surgery (okay, surgeries--this thing really wanted to die but he kept it on life-support). He took his "body" parts from a lamp. I have no idea why I'm doing this but here is the obituary I wrote:

Requiem for a Coffeemaker Suddenly, on Saturday, January 20, 2007, Coffeemaker, 17, affectionately known to his friends as “Mr. Coffee” died after 17 years of loyal service to Ron and Mary Smith. It came as a great shock to Mr. and Mrs. Smith as they had done everything in their power to resuscitate him. He struggled to remain in service to his faithful employers, and endured several surgeries, including multiple cord transplants. In his later years, Mr. Coffee began to slow down, even though the demand for his services did not decline. The children of Mr. and Mrs. Smith urged their parents to force Mr. Coffee to retire, but they knew that if they made him retire, he would die for certain. It is estimated that Mr. Coffee provided 17, 500 pots of coffee to the Smiths; he warmed many a cold morning, perked up many a tired eye, and was the centerpiece of many family gatherings. Mr. Smith, who was closest to Mr. Coffee, has said that he doesn’t know how he will go on without his faithful companion. “We’ve been through so much together.” He said. “No one has been there for me like my buddy Mr. Coffee.” Further comments were inaudible due to Mr. Smith’s sobbing. Mrs. Smith added: “We just thought he would live forever. Even when I wasn’t drinking coffee, it was comforting to know he was there.” His replacement, a Gevalia model, said, “I have some big cups to fill and I hope I can be as good a coffeemaker as Old Mr. Coffee was. He was an inspiration to me.” Friends and family were always amazed at Mr. Coffee’s persistence and perseverance, as he lived far beyond his expected life span. At the family’s request, an autopsy was performed. Preliminary reports suggest that Mr. Coffee suffered a fatal myopumpial infarction and he died of pump failure. Funeral arrangements are pending, though Mr. and Mrs. Smith have said that in honor of Mr. Coffee’s passing, they will only be serving tea at the wake. Friends and family are encouraged to send their condolences and to share their memories of Mr. Coffee by calling or emailing the bereaved. In lieu of flowers, the family suggests sending Starbucks gift cards.

Footnote: A rep for the Coffee Growers Association sent the following statement:
“In honor of our dear departed friend, Mr. Coffee, a roast will be held in Colombia. Juan Valdez will be officiating. Tributes by Mssrs. Maxwell House and Folgers are planned. The roast is expected to be Chock Full of Nuts. It is tentatively scheduled for Saturday, January 27, 2007 at 8 O’Clock.”

So if you've ever wondered why I'm so odd, now you know. This is what I grew up with. (Yes, it's okay to laugh at me. I know I have problems. My therapist says another 5 years of therapy and I'll be cured!) At least I was able to convince Dad not to publish the obit in the local paper. I used to dream that I was a princess who had been kidnapped from her real parents, the King and Queen of Someplace Exotic. Now you know why.