The birthday bash went off without a hitch. Mass quantities of food were consumed, much laughter was had, and the 20-something texters in the front row got OWNED. I received many fine presents including the requitsite vibrator for the 41 year old who has nothing. What most intrigues me about this vibe masquerading as a lipstick in a lurid shade of magenta, are the comments on the back of the packaging. Well, that and the fact that Duane was shanghaied by his wife into driving to Hustler and buying it. A story for another day. Comment number one: "Enjoy a long lasting pleaseure in a sexy shade of magenta." I didn't know that pleasure actually had color. Does this mean I will see flashes of magenta colored light when experiencing the aforementioned pleasure? Or perhaps I will be suffused in a magenta glow at the pinnacle? It bears contemplating. Comment number two reads as follows: "Discreet design fits nicely in your makeup bag." I hope to never be in such dire straits that I need to avail myself of a little stress relief while applying my daily makeup. I mean, I'm all for a girl taking control of her sexuality, but let's have a little self control!
There is no better sight, smell, or feeling of freshly washed linen adorning one's bed. The pristine loveliness of a made bed, the soothing feel of crisp, clean unslept on sheets, the relaxing fragrance of your favorite fabric softener wafting on the breeze. Aaahhhh. Not to mention seeing the true color of your comforter after it has been de-furred from lazy felines who believe your king-sized bed is their personal lounging space that they grudgingly allow you to share. I love clean sheets. I hate making beds. This is perhaps because the beds in my abode are the aforementioned king-sized, a full sized captain's bed, and twin sized bunk beds. I am 5'1" on a good day. Making the captain's bed requires me to pull the mattress off the bed, make it as far as I can with one side on the ground and then muscle it back onto the frame. The process is repeated for the top bunk of the bunk bed, only with a twin mattress and a bed frame six inches above my head. (I believe there is a special place in hell for the designer of the bunk-bed. It was probably a 6'5" male, who never made the damn thing anyway!) I digress. I am perhaps the only person who breaks a sweat on bed change day. To this end, it doesn't happen very often during the winter months. Everyone bathes before bed, and no one sweats at night. Especially me, dammit all to hell! Sorry. Different story.
Yesterday, as I had two children at home sick with fever and coughing (well, one sick and one, more that likely, malingering. What the hell, everyone needs a mental health day), I decided I had put off washing bed linen long enough. And in a burst of maternal concern, decided nothing feels bettter when you are ill, than a nice clean bed. Having now planted that seed in my brain like one of those mind bending bugs from "The Wrath of Khan", I also decided it was time to turn mattresses. No small feat in these circumstances. Be that as it may, by bedtime everyone had a nice clean bed. SoS had respiked a fever to 102, and his left eardrum was looking mighty suspicious. Crap. I drugged him with Motrin and sent him to bed. Around 10pm, he asked it he could sleep in my bed. Sure, honey. I went to bed at 12, and noted that my boy was soaked with sweat. Fever break? Fabulous, even though I had just washed my sheets. But, what's a little boy sweat in the grand scheme of things? Murphy is such a bastard. Around 6am, I was awakened by the unmistakable sound of the cough that precurses retching. I flew up, intending to yank my sickly child out of MY bed and rush him to the bathroom when he got to his knees and.....crap. I'm so glad I just washed the sheets. Oh, well, it was just the fitted sheet and the water he had before bed, I can adjust. We got up, I pulled off the fitted sheet, put down some towels, pulled the flat sheet up, more towelage, got the famous puke bucket handy, informed sickly child that it was on the night stand, received verbalization he understood (hello, nursing 101), tucked him back in and went to the bathroom. Upon returning, I was greeted with the sight of my boy on hands and knees pretty much insuring we were up for the day. Apparently, he decided in for a penny, in for a pound, and since I was going to rewash that fitted sheet again, why not the flat, the pillowcases, the electric blanket, the comforter, the towels, let's see what else? *sigh* This is what I get for enjoying to sensation of fresh sheets. I'll get to enjoy it twice in one week
Conversation last night: Me upon smelling my son's not so fresh hair: "Did you shower? " He: "Yeah. " "Did you wash your hair? " "Yeah. " "With shampoo? " "Well, I rinsed it. " "Did you wash with soap? " "No. " "So you didn't shower and bathe, you RINSED? " Whereupon we had a lengthy conversation encompassing bacteria, MRSA, and the offensive odors associated with nearly pre-pubescent boys, especially those equipped with man fuzz.
Fast forward to tonight while SoS was in the shower: Me: "Where is the soap? " Number One Son: "I don't know. " "Where was it when you showered? " "There wasn't any. " "So, you didn't wash? " "I washed my hair. " "Is that the only part of your body?!? Did we not have this conversation last night? " Jump to recap of last night's cleanliness diatribe with added bonus material of athlete's foot and flesh eating bacteria. I'm not sure what is wrong with these people, but I am sure my genetics play no part what so ever. And I'm equally sure that I have guaranteed certain Howard Hughes-like qualities in both NOS and SoS. (Insert sound of head being soundly beaten against nearest surface)