There’s More to Life Than a Little Dust and Disorder

Today, I got a burst of energy and pulled out the vacuum cleaner. “You know,” I said to my husband and son, who were watching TV, “I used to be an amazing housekeeper.”

“And I used to be 150 pounds,” my husband responded without looking up. My son did look up, quickly, to see my reaction. When I laughed, he returned his attention to the show.

“I don’t remember your ever being 150 pounds,” I said.

“That’s my point,” he answered, with a smile.

I tried to figure out what he meant. Did he mean that it had been a long time since I was a good housekeeper, or that he never remembers my being one? Either way, it didn’t look good for me.

But my husband didn’t seem to mind the chaos raging around him, so why should I? I shouldn’t, I decided, as I put away the vacuum and joined them around the flat screen.

Sleep-Shopping

Yesterday morning, I woke up and my wallet was next to me in bed. I remember that I shopped in my dreams, so I must have paid for my purchases. But what did I do with them? If I paid real money, then I should get real things in return. But if I paid imaginary money, I suppose I’ll only have access to my new things when I sleep. If only I knew how much money was in my wallet when I went to bed. That would clear things up a bit.

Union Label

I dreamt that all of my problems would be solved if I joined a union. My dreams didn’t specify which union, so I guess I’ll have to join them all.

Lysol and Holy Water

I know it’s not popular to believe in evil spirits, but I do. I just think it’s strange that, back in Jesus’ day, he and his apostles spent a good amount of time casting out evil spirits. Once the demon spirits were expelled, the cured people were good as new.

So, why would evil spirits just suddenly go away? In my opinion, they didn’t. They just went out of fashion. When society stopped believing in them, they didn’t close up shop. They were busier than ever but, once they became passé, they were able to operate under the radar, ignored and blameless. Now, when people were evil or acted crazy, they were labeled as “unstable”—instead of as “possessed.” I imagine that when the demons were given their free pass, they had a hell of a party.

This all relates, of course, to my recent outing on eBay. All winter long, I had been looking for a nice pair of black leather riding boots with a small stacked heel. Because I only shop at Marshalls and TJ Maxx—along with the rest of humanity—pickings were scarce. Either the heels were sky-high or the prices were, which was surprising considering where I was shopping.

By February, I still didn’t have a pair of black boots, so I decided to risk catching plantar warts and buy a gently used pair on eBay. I figured my chances of contracting warts were slim if I sprayed the inside of the boots with Lysol. Anyway, I found the boots I was looking for, won the bidding war, and paid considerably less (including shipping) than I would have at my usual hunting grounds. Once I paid for them, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at handbags.

Four successful auctions later, I was the proud owner of one new evening bag and three previously owned leather purses.  I got excellent deals on the bags (including shipping); however, I still wasn’t shocked at my husband’s vehement (read “loud”) request that I “get off eBay right now.”

I always confess everything to my husband. Even if I plan in advance to go overboard with whatever I’m doing, I also know that I’m going to tell him what I did, to relieve my guilt. Knowing about my future confession keeps me in check. Kind of.

I told one of my sisters about my purchases and she said, “Ewwww. How can you wear boots, or carry a bag that was owned by someone else?”

“I’m going to wipe down the boots and bags with Lysol wipes and spray their insides with Lysol spray. They’ll be germ-free once I’m done,” I said.

“But they could have bad juju,” she said.

“Juju”? I asked.

“You know, evil spirits or bad auras, or something.”

“Huh,” I said. That was a new one. “Well then, once I clean them, I’ll sprinkle everything,  inside and out, with holy water.”

“That might work,” she said. “Hey!” she added, “I think you just invented the next generation of cleaners—ones that get rid of germs and bad juju.”

“Wow,” I said. “You might be right. But, we’ll need to find a new word for juju.”

“Why?” she asked. “Nobody believes in evil spirits, but juju is a commonly accepted thing.”

I can’t help but wonder what kind of people she hangs out with.

A Cure for Forgetfulness

My new slippers have Memory Foam. Now, when I go into a room to get something, my slippers will remember what I wanted.

Desperate Measures

It was 2:35 a.m. and I was in my office, across from my son’s bedroom, downloading firecracker sounds from the Internet. As soon as I hit “play,” my son leaped from his bed and appeared in my office doorway.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked. Ordinarily, I would object to his using the word “hell” when talking to me, but I let it slide because, if I had been assaulted by the sound of explosives while I slept, I know I would have used much stronger language.

 

“I’m recording firecracker noises from the computer onto my BlackBerry,” I told him.

 

“Why?”

 

“Sorry I woke you,” I responded.

 

“So, you’re not going to tell me why you’re playing firecracker sounds in the middle of the night?” he asked.

 

“Because,” I said, “I just spent two hours trying to get the dog to come in from the yard. Next time, I’m going to play the recording out the window and scare him into coming in.” Our dog, Rudy, goes crazy with fright when he hears firecrackers and fireworks.

 

“Oh, okay, that makes sense,” my son said, as he headed back to bed.

 

“You might want to close your door. I just found some fireworks sounds that I want to add to the recording. They’ll really scare Rudy.”

 

“Sure,” my son said as he closed his door.

 

Sometimes you have to go to extremes. If I have to scare my dog to death in order to get him into the house, then that’s the way it has to be. I recently took a CPR class where we were taught that you do what you have to do.

 

For instance, if you want to perform CPR on someone, you first have to ask his permission, and get expressed consent, before you start. If he says no, you can’t do anything except call for help. Then, you have to wait until help comes, or the person becomes unconscious. Once the person becomes unconscious, you can do whatever you want to him—within CPR guidelines, of course—because when a person is unconscious, he is giving you implied consent to perform CPR on him. Even if you mess up, you’re still protected under The Good Samaritan Law. Something about this sounds sketchy, even a little sinister, but who am I to question the rules?

 

Several years ago, one of my sisters took a water lifesaving course. She said that if the person you’re trying to save from drowning starts to fight with you—because he is panicking, or doesn’t want to be saved—you are allowed to knock him out, in order to save his life, and your own; you don’t want him drowning you while you try to rescue him. So, you can basically drag anyone you want out of the water, after beating him up, and consider yourself a Good Samaritan.

 

I’m just glad that it was my son, and not my husband, who was awakened by firecracker sounds in the house after midnight. If it were my husband, I would be the one who would need CPR, and my husband isn’t certified to perform it. Not that he would want to, anyway.

A Really Crummy Day

“I’m dying,” I thought. “Every bone in my body is in agonizing pain. I must have bone cancer.” This was going through my head while I slept last night. I think I remember kneeling up on my mattress and doing yoga to relieve the pain. I could have dreamed that I assumed the child’s pose to stretch out my back, though. I suppose I’ll never know. If I did, I don’t think it did much for the pain, because I recall that, after doing it, or dreaming that I was doing it, my spine and all of the radiating bones were still on fire.

I also had a very sick stomach. I had gone to bed at 4 p.m. because of my stomach distress. I didn’t wake up for 19 hours, except to assume the child’s pose, if I did, and scare the wits out of my husband. I’m fairly certain that I picked up the stomach bug at the house where I babysit young children. They all had it on Wednesday and I got it on Friday; a two-day incubation period sounds reasonable. While the mother of the children assured me that she had wiped down the entire house with Lysol, she didn’t count on my kissing them. If I got the virus from them, it was my own fault. I just love kissing babies. Kissing sick babies, however, is just not a good idea.

But, back to my midnight musings: Because I had a sick stomach and exquisite pain (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase) in my spine, arms, legs, ribs, neck, and shoulders, I added possible heart attack to my bone-cancer self-diagnosis. Earlier that day, I had taken a CPR class, so I knew what the symptoms of a heart attack were. In my unconscious state, I deduced from my various symptoms that I was on my way out. Considering the pain that I was in, this was not an unwelcome thought.

Around 4 a.m., I went downstairs into the guest room to visit my husband, who had the sense not to sleep with someone who had a stomach bug. He jumped out of bed from fright, and after composing himself, he asked how I was. I told him that I was sick. Very sick. Oh-so-sick.  Then I left the room, according to him. I don’t remember much of this visit, except that I didn’t do yoga.  What I do recall is that during the time that I was prowling the house, the pain in my spine and numerous bones started to recede. By the time I had made it back upstairs, it was gone. I still had a stomach ache, but the bone cancer had cured itself.

Over the years, I have learned to accomplish things while sleeping. I often come up with ideas for my blog, invent things, create uses for tortilla shells, and recall old grudges. Last night, I solved a problem. I realized that my bones probably ached from the wind coming in through the windows behind my bed. So, I propped a bunch of pillows against the headboard and slept upside down, under a mass of blankets and comforters. In a matter of minutes, I was sleeping like a baby with a stomach ache.

Before I drifted into a heavy sleep, I remember being glad that I didn’t have bone cancer, and probably wasn’t having a heart attack. I also concluded that both my stomach virus and my inflamed bones could have been avoided. I should have worn a mask around the sick kids (or, at the very least, not kissed them), and I should have covered my draughty windows. I also should have read the directions that came with my GPS.

As I mentioned, I had taken a CPR class that morning. The class was half an hour away from my house. I planned on using my GPS to get there, but for once, I had a backup plan: I printed out directions. Why I did this is a mystery to me. I have never had a problem with my GPS before, but someone from the Great Beyond must have whispered “Google Maps” into my ear. And, it was a good thing that I didn’t disregard the Heavenly suggestion.

So, I got into the car, plugged in the GPS, and clicked on the screen that made me swear that I would not touch the GPS while I was driving. I then started the car while the GPS was powering up (I didn’t lie to the GPS; I planned on entering my destination when I was stopped at a red light).  As I drove toward the highway, an ear-piercing whistling sound emitted from the device. While driving, I fumbled with the switch on the top of the screen to shut it off, but the screeching continued. I ripped the power cord out, with the same result: the high-pitched whine would not stop.

I was now at the highway entrance and couldn’t pull over. The only thing to do was to shove the GPS between my thighs and keep my legs as tightly closed as possible. This lessened the noise a bit, but not enough. So, I scanned the radio stations until I found one that was playing rap music and played it full-blast. Every once in a while, I could hear the whining of the GPS, so I had to retighten my thighs. This was all done while reading the directions that were propped on the steering wheel.

By the time that I reached the American Red Cross building, my nerves were frayed.  After I parked, I looked at the switch on the GPS screen. I fumbled with it again and the noise still wouldn’t stop. Then I held the switch in the Off position for a few seconds. When I released it, all that I heard was blessed silence. While I was grateful that the thing finally shut off, it was annoying to realize that I could have avoided half an hour of electronic whining, loud rap music, and cramps in my thighs, if I had only learned in advance how to turn off the GPS.

After the class, I went home, became violently ill and went to bed. That’s where this story started, and that’s a good place to end it.