Homestyle Hurricanes and Tornados

This weekend, a hurricane met up with a tornado, they made fast friends, and decided to come on over to party and parade through my house.

I was sick, and instead of laying up in the bed like a vulture-picked-carcass, I decided to handle the blog envy and change up the layout... You know, to be productive even without much energy.

Sometime after I retreated to the computer room with my jacket and my coffee, hubby took dumb-ass pills and the home destruction began. Yes, I realize that I mentioned him working on stuff during the last post... He did... OUTSIDE. Because that's what he does. He works outside the house. Besides, reading the new Playboy that came in the mail while you're rider-mowing the already-short-grass does not qualify as a massive amount of work, even when you also duck tape closed the jalousie windows in the back room and *finally* caulk all the holes around the windows from when we boarded up the windows for IKE... He was finished, even with all his where's this'n'that (see prior post) in under 90 minutes, and that was, again for the cheap seats, OUTSIDE the house. Once he pops over the front door threshold, it's all over for the work part of his personal world.

His focus is the only thing that does not get turned off...ever. Whether he's reading in the back room or watching TV, it is so intense that he ceases to be aware of anything else that is not majorly life-threatening. This is not good when you are charged with looking after a Turbo-Terror-Toddler-Tot, which our son has most certainly turned into. I should have anticipated the severity of the disaster-area that I was setting myself up for, but I was foggy-headed and hopeful in a delusional sort of way; kind of like that princess chicky from Enchanted, except that I would have killed any one of those NYC-style-creature-helpers deader'n'a doornail.

OK, so here I am, sick, but trying to be productive... It was a mistake, a big, fat, hairy, mistake. This is because hubby, even though he knew, Knew, KNEW I was sick, from both my fever And my pallor, And our discussion of it, And that we canceled the plans we had for Saturday with our friends... You get it; he knew. However, because I was not in bed, but in the computer room...hubby took it as a personal affront that I did not spend the day with him. (fucking-wah-baby-man!) ... and I'm not saying that it was a conscious decision, to retaliate for my neglecting his enormous ego, but I will tell you how the house looked when I came out the 'puter room...

First of all, I was lucky to open the door to come out, because my son, the tornado, had removed every single toy from the space that I've found to put them away, and left most of them there in a jumbled pile in front of the door to the 'puter room. Kind of like a cat does with dead birds and field mice; he brought me a present that made me want to shriek. Then my brilliant son, realizing that Daddy wasn't paying him more than the most rudimentary of mind, proceeded to empty every phone book from the bookcase (hubby is a total pack-rat, there are probably 15 of them from as far back as 2001...yeah.) along with the dominoes, which got opened and two-year-old-played-with.

The tornado then went into the kitchen, where I found my brand-new-econo-sized creamer, not on the table where it usually is, but in the garbage can next to where it usually is. This was quite a feat because the garbage can was full. Just enough of the toys have progressed this far and are spread out in a land-mine pattern that a toddler can navigate, but adults with adult-sized feet can not~ without a decent amount of pain. From the kitchen, there are blankets and socks that he's taken off of his feet and strewn down the hall floor.

The bathroom. The bathroom. OK, there's water splashed everywhere, including the toilet seat, which tips mommy off that someone was playing IN the toilet... (excuse me, I'll be right back, I just puked a little in my mouth) it's an even bigger tip-off than the fact that the toilet is still running. And finally back to our bedroom, where the tools under the bed (storage is tight here folks!) are sticking out, several items from my 'personal things' are on the bed. These items include, but are not limited to: a necklace, my pedicure kit and my tampons, all of which were pushed pretty far back on the shelf. I have come to my son's final resting place, where he is sitting on a laundry basket that I use for sheet storage, on said sheets, playing happily with all of the crystals/rocks that hubby had on the windowsill...

But wait, there's more... Turbo-Tot wasn't the only one running free-range while I was in the computer room... no. There was hubby, the hurricane too. First of all, when I emerge, hubby is staring somewhat-glassy-eyed at the TV upon which there is some completely-nonsensical-XYZ-OMG-someone-paid-someone-else-to-make-this-POS-and-put-it-on-DVD-WTF-for-incase-you-run-out-of-clays-when-skeet-shooting-and-what-possessed-you-to-rent-it-from-Redbox-have-you-lost-your-everloving-mind?!? movie playing. He doesn't even notice that I've come out even thought the door to the computer room is only 5 feet from him at most.

Aside from his terrible taste in movies, he is sitting on our couch, which requires a couch cover. We're Po'. Our couch cover is some yikes striped patterned lightweight bed spread thingy showcasing the beautiful colors reminiscent of the 1970's earth-tones collection from K-Mart. And every time hubby gets up off of the covered couch, he doesn't just get up. He slides his butt to the edge of the couch cushion and then gets up, dragging the cover with him. The couch cover, after an all day ordeal of being hubby-ized is half hanging on the floor in a crumpled pile at about the midway point of the couch, it is also all scrunched together in one of the valleys the cushions make when they join... my side of the couch, while intact, has a bowl and a plate and his empty mug on it along with several pages that our son ripped out of some of the phone books and left there for his father as a present. His father was oblivious.

I pick up the plate and the bowl and the mug and attempt to make it to the kitchen. Where I finally do, only to find that this plate and bowl are just the last in a long line of many. I have none left in my cabinets; Not One. On the rare occasions that he has to fend for himself food-wise, the man eats constantly, and uses an ape-load of dishes~ plates, bowls, silverware... The only thing that he doesn't use tons of, are drinking glasses, because he's got his One Mug. So, now both sides of the sink are full, and I can't put either his plate or his bowl into the sink...AND my garbage can is packed-down-overflowing onto the table, counter and floor around it with food wrappers and packages.

In his defense, he would point out that he pulled a fresh loaf of bread out of the freezer and made more ice... Note to hubby: you're the only one that eats bread or requires ice. Did he stack and or rinse his dishes? No. Did he clean up the table or the counters from his full-kitchen-stuff-my-gullet-cause-I'm-bored-feeding-frenzy? No. Did he, at any time, say to himself, "My wife, who keeps this home of ours clean, and who serves me a home-cooked dinner every night that I work, and who does all of my laundry and who is back there trying to be productive instead of wallowing in the bed as sick as she is... why don't I just show a smidgen of consideration and empty even just this one kitchen garbage can, which is overflowing onto the floor." But, did he say that to himself, Y'all...

No, he didn't, he simply stacked anything that he couldn't fit into the too-full can around the can on the counter and table there so that it would all be in one central location when I got off my dead ass and took out the garbage... and washed all the dishes (still no dishwasher, fyi), and checked the cabinets to make sure that milk sippies aren't lost and fermenting in them, and picked up all the dominoes and the phone books and the Turbo-Tot toys, and put the socks in the laundry, and cleaned up the bathroom, and put back all the rocks and personal items and changed the Turbo-Tot's diaper and his onsie that he's spit kool-ade all down the front of cause that's his new trick (which totally stains the rest of your skin just like it stains your upper lip, and now the boy looks like he has Chinese-gang writing on his chest), and put his little rump to rest before he could do any more tornado-ing for the night and yeap, I was bitching the whole time, to keep from going completely postal on the man cause I DO know where the rifles and the ammo are.

I knew it was time to go to bed, hopefully with the aid of a horse tranquilizer, when I tried to discuss it with him later, and I got told that he understood that I was ONLY bitching because I was sick and grouchy, and that he forgave me...

So I consider the weekend a total success, for two reasons; first, the new template is up and seems to be fully functional and I didn't loose anything (deleted after adding to the new template is another story)...

And the second reason; because I didn't get arrested for murder.