Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Catastrophic Cleaning Crises

There are some serious problems simmering in my household. An explosion of epic proportions is due any moment. I don't even know where to hide, for the inevitable meltdown of my psyche and home.

First issue: After having posted an urgent plea on FaceBook, not one of my friends came to my rescue. My simple request? I was in desperate need of a legitimate excuse to not have to clean my bathroom. Oh, sure, everyone agreed with me on the horrid chore that it is. But no one offered a way to squirm out of it.

Some one out there could have broken into my car, started our house on fire, found a way to start a tsunami and made us have to evacuate, left a piglet crying on my doorstep in need of a good rub down. Nothing. It's not like they have to clean their own bathrooms, or something. They probably all have a cleaning service to do all household chores for them. Because I know that I am the only person in the U.S. to have to scrub their own toilet.

Second issue: My teenage son has decided to quit honoring his mother. No respect from that off-spring that caused me to scream at his birthing. All I asked was that he help me make my bed. Because second to scouring foot grime off of the bathtub, I truly loathe putting on sheets, blankets and bedspread. Don't even get me started about pillowcases.

I tried every thing I could think of to gain his assistance. From guilt trips about the jacket I bought him today and all the painful effort it took to earn the money for it, to over blown compliments about how extraordinarily gifted he is at putting together bedding. Nothing worked. He has called my bluff and now refuses to tuck in the fitted sheet, or lay the blankets in place.

Finally, I threatened to never make dinner for him ever again. And can you believe this? He thinks I'm joshing. Just wait until tomorrow night when I feed his share of the tofu meatloaf to our dogs. Hah. He'll not be laughing then.

He actually said that I was old enough to make it myself! Where is the love here, people?

The only compensation for us poor, poor mothers, is that half glass of Cabernet waiting for me on the kitchen counter.

And the warm, clean, freshly made bed to clamber into and read a John Updike novel. And, well, I guess the sudsy bath I can take tonight while drinking the half glass of Cabernet.

So, I suppose my life is not a catastrophic mess.

But I am still feeding his tofu meatloaf to the dogs. Or making him eat it. Whichever he protests the most about, that shall be his non-bed-making consequence.

I am the hardcore, mean mother.

Heather Leigh,
Cleaned Out, Suffering Mother

Thursday, September 15, 2016

Zombie Frogs

There is a great fear that I know must be shared by multitudes of people: What would happen if the Zombie Apocalypse occurs while I am in the gym jacuzzi? As I crawl my way out with melted, mushy muscles and brain, it would be easy to mistake my form for the Undead. I could be shot with a silver bullet and have my head bashed in with a shovel before making it to my brand new, eco-friendly Prius.

Is there a label for this justified and common fear?

Another issue that needs to be labeled is the condition of falling tree frogs. (Background knowledge for you: there are two maple trees on either side of our driveway. Their branches, thick with foliage, hang over my brand new, eco-friendly Prius). While driving on the highway last week, a tree frog crawled out from underneath my window wiper blade.

She stared at me through the front window glass.

This must be a common occurrence with tree frogs--falling off of their tree home onto car windshields, and then crawling under wiper blades for comfort. But as we could not converse, neither of us speaking the other's language, I could not be sure if this was a suicide attempt, or a leap of desired adventure. Knowing this would help greatly in determining a proper label for her actions.

Now all of this leads up to what you have each been thinking: do frogs worry about becoming zombies?

If so, what can we do to help alleviate their fears? The first step, obviously, is to label this psychosis. Ideas: TFZF, tree frog zombie fear; Frogbie Disorder; Undead TR Obsession.

Once a label name has been established, us caring humans will have to start outreach committees and support groups. It is the only right thing to do in this situation.

Wow. Now that I see that my fears of Jacuzzi Zombie Mistaken Identity Disorder are nothing compared to my green friend's issues, I feel a mighty compassion overtaking me. My anxieties have disappeared. Thank you, tree frog, for bringing me to this new found sense of peace.

Namaste, tree frog.


If this were a High School Quiz posting, this would be my question to test your reading skills: What kind of car do I own?

Don't worry about the tree frog. She was safely re-homed at the edge of the Humboldt Bay, on a bed of tasty grass. No animals, or amphibians, were harmed in the making of this blog.

Heather Leigh,
Writer at Peace