Bachelor life...it's not for wimps

Thomas moved out last year. July 13th, to be exact, but who's keeping track. Shortly after he moved, this kid, who did nothing but gripe about our dogs, went out and got himself a dog. A big dog. A big, clumsy, overly affectionate dog. Now, don't get me wrong, she's a sweetheart, but she is one clumsy canine, and when she comes over here, she creates quite a stir amongst our three dogs, all of whom are male and none of whom, I'm pretty sure, have ever seen a female dog at our house.

So Thomas decided he needed to move out of his little one bedroom apartment in order to give his dog more room to run. Or gallop, which is a bit more appropriate verbage. This past weekend was the time for the big move. Thomas did quite a bit of it himself, but needed more muscle for the furniture. I basically went and watched, but I did do a tiny bit of packing stuff for him -- only by request, mind you.

I was asked to throw some of the kitchen stuff into a bag, so he could just carry it to the new place. I was loading up the sundries when I came across an open jar of salsa. I pointed out to him that salsa is supposed to be refrigerated after you open it. "It is?" he responded, somewhat incredulously. I just shook my head a bit. Then I came across another open jar, this time jalapenos. Then I really shook my head, but I figured that maybe jalapenos don't go bad as quick, because of the acid, and maybe Thomas would never know anyway, because who could tell the difference between a bad jalapeno and a good one, since they're gonna tear up your gut anyway?

So we were talking about the terminal cleaning of the apartment, and Thomas mentioned that he will not miss cleaning his bathroom there, because it was really difficult. He said, "you know, that bathroom gets dirty so fast. I swear it gets dirty a week after I clean it." Uh, yeah. I mentioned that a bathroom really is supposed to be cleaned every day, at which point his jaw totally dropped. "No way," he said. "Yes, way," said the mother. Now, I am not the model of cleaning, Lord only knows, but not cleaning the bathroom for a week? The kid knows better.

Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, I tell you.

So yesterday, he mentioned that there were a few things left in his apartment, and it was a pain, because he kept needing things that hadn't been moved yet. "Like pens," he said. "All my pens are still at the apartment. And my washcloth." As in singular washcloth. I asked him if he only had one washcloth, which I know was not true on July 13th of last year, since I bought his linens as a moving in gift, and bought him four sets of towels AND washcloths. Well, apparently, he is down to only one, for reasons unknown (but may likely be related to said dog). He said to me, totally mystified, "you know, I just have that one, and it's gross. It's all stiff." I pointed out that adding it to his laundry might improve that situation. He looked at me totally blank and said "you have to wash washcloths?"

Good Lord.

I know this kid knows that textiles have to be washed, because he was doing laundry at the age of ten, and did a great job, so what he's smoking over at the new place, I will never know. He seems to have forgotten all of those early lessons he did so well at. He may just need to find him a little woman soon. One who is a domestic goddess, and has a high tolerance for domestic challenges. From what I can tell, his very life may depend upon it.

Movin' on Up

I think I've mentioned that Thomas is moving out. He's getting his first apartment, and he's pretty pumped up about it. He came down the other day and asked me if I'd help him pack. I shivered at the thought.

I told him he should start with his clothes first. Do the winter clothes now, and save what he needs to wear this week till later, but bring down the dirty clothes, cause I didn't want him packing away dirty clothes. "I don't have any dirty clothes," said the heir to the throne. Sure. Right. Those of you who have read about his laundry in the past know that it is a thing to be feared.

I went up to his room, and was met with the normal view -- floor covered with clothes. I pointed to one pile and asked, "what is that?" He said "oh, those are dirty." "So you DO have dirty clothes up here. What about these?" I pointed to the pile next to the other one and asked "what's up with these?" "Oh, those are clean." Just exactly how he could tell the difference is something that only a nineteen year old boy would know.

I folded a few things and got him started, then left him to his own devices, telling him to bring the dirty stuff down. A little bit later, he comes down with half a hamper of clothes. I told him that no way was that all of it. He said "well, you don't want it all. There's a LOT." OK, now we're getting to the bottom of it. I told him to go back upstairs and toss down the dirty stuff, cause I was doing laundry, and wanted to do it all at one time. The result was an avalanche of clothes that darn near could've knocked me out, and completely blocked anyone from the stairs.

::sigh::

At this point, I yelled up "throw your sheets down, too." "WHAT," he replied. "THROW YOUR SHEETS DOWN." I gave up all hope with the response:

"I have sheets?"

Where the socks are

Laundry is an every day, every night thing around here. It's a job that's never done -- and when it is, then one of the kids comes down with their hamper, or Thomas shows up with everything that's been on his dorm room floor for two weeks.
I'm pretty used to it, and the kids will do their own laundry most of the time, but there's one thing that brings it all to a dead stop. Socks.

I did laundry today, and decided to wash our bedspread and sheets,then put them on the line in back to dry. It was a nice, warm, breezy day, so I figured they'd dry pretty quickly. This was also date night, where Dan and I go out to dinner without the kids, while they're at youth group. We got ready to head out, and I asked Dan if I should take the bedding in, because it was cloudy out. "Nope," says he, "we've got time."

Except in the middle of dinner, it started to rain. Had to run home and take it all in. In order to get it in the dryer, we had to take out a load of, of course, socks, because no one ever wants to match the socks up. Since we didn't have any bedding on the bed, I threw all the socks down and started matching them up. It's not an easy job around here, because I'm the only one who doesnt wear white socks, with the exception of two pairs of Denver Broncos socks.

Of course, with the weird sock fixation around here, I know that the footies with no ankle are all Thomas', the ones that are ankle high are Seth's, and Dan gets the over the calf socks. Jill has a few footies with logos on them, but mostly just steals my socks, which are of all different colors, with several pair of knit white amongs them - just to make them easy to find.

Of course, when I was done matching up this load of socks, I had a few leftovers, so I went to go get the sock basket, where the spares are kept. This is an oval woven basket that holds all the odd socks till I find their match. The only problem is that sometimes I don't find the match. Like, I think I have some socks in their that Seth wore when he was 8 or 9.

He'll be 14 next month. What can I say? I'm an optimist.

So when I was done matching up all the socks, I wondered just how many odd socks I had. After counting them up, I found that I had 21 footies, six colored socks (or socks of color, to be politically correct), 23 over the calf socks (including six men's church socks, most of which were likely worn only once, because they belonged to Seth, and he wears jeans to church - on a good day), and two Broncos socks. That makes 52 socks: one for every week of the year.

I figure at this rate, if we stay in this house till we retire, we won't need to buy socks for the rest of our lives. We should be set on footwear, even if it's Broncos socks and blue and white Hello Kitty anklets, because who looks at your socks anyway? And in reality, I'm usually barefoot anyway. If the kids ever move out, we'll probably even find a match or two, which would be even better.

Or if we decide that matching is mandatory, and we're in a bind, I could go to wearing panty hose, or some unmistakeable stockings like
these wonderful red, white and blue vintage ones from finefindings, on ebay. Maybe I should invite her over to my house, to find me some fine socks.

Can you stomach this?

It's flu season, and all of Indiana is coughing. We've done nothing but talk to patient about coughs for two weeks now, and there's no sign of it letting up. Heck, even my youngest ds has a cough, and my kids never get sick. Being homeschooled, the cooties don't have an easy time getting to us.

But me, I have been coughing since the weekend after Thanksgiving. It's no lie to say that it started when I carried ds18's laundry up to the third floor of the dorm. I was fine one minute, then decided to carry it up to save him a second trip out to the car in the rain, and by the time I got to the car, I was coughing. By the time I got home 2 hours later, I was looking for an inhaler, and it's not let up since. Blame the boy's laundry. He tried to kill me with it.

So I saw the ENT doctor yesterday, cause my own doc is mystified as to why I cough every winter. DH is sure I have a tumor, but I told him it must be a seasonal tumor, because I only cough from November to May, and then it goes away. He thinks it's the two dogs, two cats, and the guinea pig that live here, but they DON'T go away, so it makes no sense that the coughing is seasonal. So this ENT doc wants to do a test where they put a tube down my nose for 24 hours, to test the pH of my esophagus, cause he thinks it's all from reflux.

I've always been a little backward.

Doesn't sound too fun though, having a little tube up the nose and down the throat for 24 hours. Definitely would make it hard to find a date, so I guess I'm glad I'm married. But God knows, the kids will have a high time laughing at their mama (not like they don't on a normal day, mind you).

And so, in thinking about my supposedly rotten stomach, I went looking for something to show off the hourglass shape that I tried (not so successfully) to have, a few years back. I found this fabulous vintage 50s Black Noir Wiggle Dress, from Rising Phoenix Vintage. Don't you think it would rock, with some stilettos and sparkly bracelets? I love the waist detail. Heck, it might even give ME a waist.

Well, you can't blame a girl for dreaming...........