First things first: my children have now joined the ranks of People Who Have Been Traumatized by the Swamp Scene in The Neverending Story.
The horse dies. Of sadness. (Artax noooooooo!)
On the positive side, they were traumatized while sitting in what might be the coolest kids' chairs ever created. Technically these things are called LÖMSKes, but we call them Space Eggs. We didn't intend to come home from our Sunday Ikea trip with Space Eggs, but come on: you would have bought them, too.
Ikea: the master of deceptive simplicity. (Image by Carl Kleiner.)
Going to Ikea on a Sunday is SUCH a rookie move. Going to Ikea at noon on a Sunday with your children and husband in tow means you don't get to complain about anything ever again, because honestly, you're clearly so poor at decision-making that you deserve whatever comes your way. Forever.
Except I had to go. Because I needed something that could only be found at Ikea, and Ikea charges $150 to deliver, and the alternative to going with my children and husband was going with my children and without my husband, and sorry nope.
In wake of yesterday’s garage-cleaning insanity (and in light of the fact that excuse me those corners were terrifying and I cleaned them anyway), I thought I’d whip up a little present for my husband. “Generous” is baaaaaasically my middle name.
For my final project in Spring Cleaning Week...this.
Whyyyyyy is it so hard to keep your garage clean? Every few months, I decide that I’ve had it with the state of our garage (cluttered! dusty! inexplicably scattered with Cheerios!) and spend an hour or two attacking it…but within a couple of weeks, like clockwork, it returns to its resting state (disastrous).
The thing about our garage is that it’s such an opportunity. It’s fairly well-lit and relatively empty thanks to the fact that we live in California and don’t have to actually park our cars in it. And given the not-so-massive size of our house, it’d be so nice to have a little extra space for Kendrick to set up his instruments; for the kids to play; for me to exercise (hahahahahaha); for whatever.
And so I put it on the calendar: Garage Cleaning Day. Not only were we going to reorganize; we were going to CLEAN THE BEAST. This process, of course, involved harrowing close encounters with dustballs that very closely resembled (and that I remain certain may have been) black widows.
The hideous, bright-orange brick on the exterior of my house has always vexed me: what to do about it? I mentioned this to my friend Erin, and she said oh, why don't you try a German Smear?
...See, to me "German Smear" sounds like a porn that I don't want to see. (Or maybe that I really, really do, depending on my mood and whether I've eaten recently.) Or maybe an extremely delicious sandwich. But probably not something I want to have happen to my house.
I am super aware that this does not look easy. It is so easy. I whipped this arrangement – which is nice and low, so you can put it on your dining room table without completely obliterating your view of your fellow diners - up using exclusively grocery store-bought flowers, and in about ten minutes. (Okay, my son helped. But still.)
I am literally bouncing up and down in my chair right now because I'm scrolling through the list of half-finished post drafts sitting on my Wordpress dashboard, and I cannot wait to show you all the cool stuff I've been up to lately. In the past three weeks, I have redone the exterior of my entire house. I have made over my kitchen. I have planted all the plants, have learned how to do something called a German Smear (omg just wait until you see it), and have identified the cutest and least crazily priced drawer pulls a person can find. And, oh yes:
I have to be honest: I’m still emotionally recuperating from The Great Flea Poop Incident. (You know, the one that went on for TWO MONTHS.) I have washed every single piece of fabric in our house more times than fabric should probably be washed in a lifetime. I have vacuumed every inch of our house using every weird little specialty attachment-thing ever created, and have spent oh, so much money at Petco. I have awoken each morning nevertheless certain that the fleas have returned and are presently eating my neck, at which point I immediately flip over to scour the sheets for any sign of flea poop, no matter how miniscule.
It appears that the crisis has passed. And so in celebration of the fact that I once again love my dogs (kidding, sort of) – and because I’m in the midst of spring cleaning - I decided to give their eating and sleeping areas an extra-special cleaning with Clorox® Regular-Bleach. It cleans, sanitizes and disinfects. And! Did you know it kills parvovirus? (If you’ve never heard of parvovirus, it’s a highly contagious doggy disease that I really don’t want to risk.)
It's happening: that thing that I promised myself wouldn't happen. That thing I specifically wrote about in the context of encouraging other people not to let it happen to them.
I'm getting sick and tired of talking about (and thinking about) politics. And it's making me want to put my earmuffs back on. Or bury my head in the sand. Pick an "ignorance is bliss" analogy; any one'll do.
The problem isn't that I'm "too upset," actually - it's that all this upsetness is starting to make me feel...numb. And the numbness is what freaks me out. Each and every day a new atrocity pops up in my news feed that makes me feel like I'm living in an alternate reality, or maybe still asleep. I know this sounds insane. I'm serious. I mentioned this odd little development to my therapist, and you know what she said? "Oh, yeah, that's dissociation. Super common. It's your brain's way of protecting you."
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