Have Spanx, Will Travel

Attention Male Readers:  Please stop reading now.

Did you think I was kidding?  Why are you still there?
I'm serious. READING THIS WILL FOREVER ROB YOU OF APPRECIATING THE SENSUAL MYSTERY OF WOMANHOOD! Also, you may never be able to look me in the eye again.

Fair warning. Don't say I didn't tell you so...because I DID!

I recently found myself in need of a formal gown for an event.  If you know me at all, you know that I am not one of those women who wants to rush right out and buy a new dress at the slightest provocation.  On the contrary, I LOATHE shopping for clothes.  Also, I'm not the kind of gal that has lots of opportunities to wear such frilly and fussy garments.  Let's face it.  I pretty much wear t-shirts and yoga pants as much as possible.  Even if I had opportunities to dress up, I'd try to justify yoga pants. (I mean, really, why can't a girl just throw on a great pair of heels with some yoga pants and call it good???)  So, in order to avoid shopping, I dug deep, DEEP into the darkest corners of my closet and managed to unearth three formal/semi-formal/cocktail dresses (I'm not actually sure what differentiates those styles...so, I thought I'd cover all of my bases).

Dress #1 was a saucy little number I made for the first cruise J and I went on...12 years ago.  Sized in the single digits, it was an easy elimination in theory.  I didn't even try it on.  My self-esteem can't take that kind of hit.
I wore Dress #2 to every Spring Banquet I attended during my 7 year stint as WCA's principal.  It's kind of a mother-of-the-bride looking dress in dusty rose.  In other words, not very chic, but it covers everything.  I actually put that one on.  (Here's a little advice, ladies:  if you are trying on a dress and are somewhat less than thrilled with your body, do NOT go ask your 10 year old to zip it up for you...even if you nearly dislocated your shoulder trying to zip it up yourself. Because, if SHE can't zip it up, she will say some brutally honest things about your body.  Things that you know, but don't want to hear from ANYBODY else.  EVER.)  That dress almost fit.  By almost, what I mean is that it fit me perfectly up to the band of my bra and then it gaped by an inch...even when I exhaled and hung on to the post of the bed, urging Princeska to pull harder (if you are picturing a southern belle weeping in pain as the servant tightens her corset like a vise, you've got the right idea).  But, my bosoms refused to be contained.  How is it possible that my boobs are bigger if the rest of me is the same size? Why is my chest 4 sizes bigger than the rest of me?  How long have I been deformed?  Why hasn't Jason told me? (Never mind on that last one...)
Dress #3 was an eBay bargain that I wore once to the Mom Prom.  (So. Much. Fun.)  It's super cute, but it doesn't have any structure to it.  In other words, every time I bend, I get visible folds and opposing bulges.  It's grotesque.

I knew I needed (what we call) a "foundation garment."  These are undergarments that suck you in, lift you up, smooth you out, accentuate the positive, and minimize the negative.  The most popular (and apparently effective) brand of these wonder unders is "Spanx."  No, no...Spanx are TOTALLY DIFFERENT than girdles!  Because girdles are the foundation garments that ladies wore, like, in the 50s and...and...and...Spanx aren't! Actually, Spanx are wonderfully soft and stretchy and have no clasps, wires, or ties.  The girdles of old were pretty industrial looking...probably engineered by some man!

Unfortunately, I don't own any Spanx (or any other variety of foundation garment).  Frankly, I don't mean to brag, but...I don't, generally need them. I totally rock my yoga pants and ratty t-shirts sans Spanx!

So, I did what any Spanx-less girl who hates to shop but spends a ridiculous amount of time on social media would do...I posted a plea for Spanx on Facebook.  You wouldn't believe how many Spanx were offered to me!  My sisters!  Curvy girls rule the world!!!

I looked FABULOUS in my dress thanx to Spanx.  (See what I did there?) Except for one. Tiny. Thing.  Dress #3 is a one shoulder number. (Ooh-la-la, tres chic!)  Remember the girls?  Lucy & Ethel? (for reference:  http://itsmyemmaness.blogspot.com/2008/08/lucy-and-ethel.html )  My disproportionately large jugs?  Yeah.  I don't own a strapless bra.  Mainly because strapless bras in my size are held up by a crane & winch...and, let's face it, why wouldn't you just go with straps?  The last strapless bra I bought hovered around my mid-section like a wide belt that contained my boobs.  Sooooo attractive.  If I wanted them that far south, I'd just tuck them into my waistband!  Neither do I own a convertible bra (if any of you fellas are still reading, convertible bras have straps that come of and can be reattached in a variety of ways...because being a girl isn't complicated enough).  My bras have straps that mean business.  In fact, they're kind of like me:  broad, strong, and carrying a heavy load.  They don't have any do-hickeys that might spring loose, unleashing a tidal-wave of boobie.  They are working bras.  If convertible bras are merry-go-round ponies, my bras are Clydesdales.  What I'm really trying to say, here, is that one formidable bra strap was going to very obviously hang out.  Okay, not HANG out...the thing would be on my shoulder, but it would NOT be covered by my dress.  Savvy?

I tried the obvious solution, which was to slide my arm out of the offending strap and tuck it down into the dress.  That strategy would have worked, except that things were then a bit uneven.  By "things," I mean my breasts.  Without that heavy-duty strap towing its share, my boobs looked like they'd had a stroke...Ethel was up where breasts are supposed to be, but Lucy?  She was limping slowly toward the floor.  (Lucy! You got some splaining to do!)

I finally just hid the offending strap by putting a black tank top on over my bra (and Spanx).  My trendy one-shoulder gown is now less trendy, but my fat is tucked in and my bosoms aren't discombobulated.  I call that "good to go!"

Girdle circa 1950

Spanx

I Blame the Kids

Not that I'm making excuses, but this is why blogging is a struggle for me each evening.

Here's a pretty typical glimpse of what goes on at my house when I sit down to blog:

Tonight, when we got home from church, I sent Buttercup upstairs to get ready for bed, Princeska to the dining room to finish her math homework, and Bass-Man upstairs to take a shower (how do teenage boys get so sweaty at BIBLE STUDY???).  Thinking I had a few minutes, I sat down at the computer to blog.  I, quite literally, didn't even have the web address typed in before it began...

Buttercup:  Mom, if I take headache medicine, will I have to go brush my teeth again?  (Seriously?  How good of a job can she possibly have done in 2.5 seconds?  Anybody know of any speed brushing contests I could enter her in?)

Me:  Do you have a headache?

Buttercup:  Yeah.  Wait...that's when your head hurts, right?

Me:  Yes. And, no, you won't have to brush again. (Yeah.  I caved as fast as she brushed.)

I get up and we walk into the kitchen where I pour her EXACTLY the right dose of children's ibuprofen (her teeth may rot out, but her liver will be just fine, thank you).  She verrrrryyyy slooooowwwwlllyyyy slurps the berry flavored goo out of the cup and then runs her tongue around the inside several times just to make sure she got it all.

Me:  Do you want to go watch a movie for a little bit?  Just until Princeska finishes her homework?

Buttercup:  Yes!  I know exactly which one I want!

I linger in the living room while she selects her movie, then I put it in for her.  Of course, she's chosen a VHS tape is all the way at the end.  As our ancient VCR grinds, squeals, and rewinds the movie so slowly a 90 year old sloth would get impatient waiting for it, Buttercup launches into a story about one of the little girls in her TeamKid class who doesn't recognize her even though they are VERY BEST FRIENDS.  I have surprisingly little wisdom to offer her, but I listen and I comfort.  FINALLY, the animated version of "The King and I" (which is every bit as awful as you are imagining) is fully rewound.  I start it up for her and then head back to my blogging.  

I managed to get signed in before...

Buttercup: (appearing at my elbow with the stealth of a mini ninja) Mom?

Me:  Yes? (I'm not gonna lie...I didn't even try to disguise my irritation)

Buttercup:  Are you doing anything terribly important?  (YES, my 5 year old really DOES talk like that.)

Me: (please insert long-suffering sigh here) What do you need?  (notice that I neither confirmed nor denied the terrible importance of blogging, thus retaining my right to declare its importance or frivolity based on her request...feel free to use that)

Buttercup: (who has sidled right up to me and is now leaning her head on my shoulder and running a hand up & down my arm...feel free to use that, too) Would you turn the fan off?  I'm getting chilly.

Me:  Sure.

I enter the living room and briefly consider pulling the ceiling fan chain until the fan is off but the light is still on, but abandon that idea out of pure laziness.  Instead, I walk all the way across the room to turn on a side-table lamp, then walk back across and shut off the fan/light combo with a flick of the switch.  Which, in retrospect, saved me neither time nor effort.  

Buttercup:  Aaahhhh!  That's so much better!

Me:  (turn around and get 3 whole steps)

Buttercup:  Mom?  Would you get me a cold cup of water?  (for reasons the rest of us don't understand and Buttercup declines to explain, she ALWAYS specifies that her water be cold...the request for a twist of lemon is probably just around the corner...after that, she'll be asking for "sparkling" or "flat")

Me:  (heavy sigh) Sure.

Buttercup: (calling after me as I walk into the kitchen to fulfill her majesty's wishes) And, no...I don't already have a cup somewhere.

I fetch and deliver Buttercup's water and sit back down at my computer.  Of course, at this point, I no longer remember the topic of the brilliantly witty blog that I originally sat down to write...I stare at the screen for a few minutes, then type out and subsequently delete several lame blog titles such as:  "My Day,"  "Blog Rhymes With Fog," and "Nothing Rhymes With Wednesday."  Clearly, titles aren't my forte, but, in my defense, you should probably have some idea of your topic before you try to come up with a title.  I started to mull over my day, trying to generate a blog topic more interesting than the massive amounts of laundry that occupied most of my time, but then Bass-Man walked in...

Bass-Man:  Hey, Mom!

Me:  Hey, Bub.

Bass-Man:  Are you feeling any better?  

Me:  Not really.

Bass-Man:  Are you using your phone?

Me:  No. (Here's a tip, fellow i-phone owners:  if you want to be able to put your phone down for more than 2 seconds without it disappearing and you have even one i-phone-less, i-pad-less child at home, do NOT download Minecraft.  Seriously.  I cannot emphasize that enough. DON'T DO IT.)

Bass-Man disappears with my phone and Buttercup re-appears at my side.  Honestly, they had to have crossed paths.

Me:  What's up?

Buttercup:  Oh...nothing...it's just...do you know anything about the school library?

Me: No. (I'm not proud of it, but I was hoping that would dissuade her from asking me whatever it was that she clearly wanted to ask me.)

Buttercup:  What would you do if everybody else in your class got a bookmark at the library except for you?   

Me:  Everyone got one but YOU??? (breathe, mama-bear, breathe...)

Buttercup:  Well, I don't know if it was EVERYONE, but I asked Leah and Karlee and they said she didn't just give you a bookmark, you had to ask for it...but we were already back in class when I noticed they had them, so I couldn't ask for one.

Me:  (urge to kill subsiding) Oh!  Well, I would just go ask for one the next time...okay?

Buttercup:  That's a whole week, Mom.

Me:  Maybe I have one you could use...or, maybe we could make one.  

Buttercup:  Can we make one?

Me:  Of course!

Buttercup:  Can we make it tonight?

Me:  (considerably less enthusiastic) Of course.

Buttercup and I raid the craft supplies.  I set her up at the table with paper, scissors, markers, and stickers.  Meanwhile, her movie is playing to an empty living room...but I'm not going in there to turn it off!  The ideal topic for tonight's blog has hit me...I'm going to be writing about the multitude of interruptions that I have to deal with when I try to do ANYTHING.  And I'm going to use tonight for an example!

I eagerly sit down and type out the title.

Princeska:  Mom?

Me:  Yes?

Princeska:  I'm finished with my homework except for one page.  I have to have a supervisor time me and listen while I do these problems...can you do that?  Or???

Me:  Sure...Bass-Man?

Bass-Man:  Yeah?

Princeska:  What did you say?

Me:  I'm talking to Bub!  I need to use my phone for a minute.

Bass-Man:  Okay...(not moving from the couch)

Princeska:  I have to do them all in THREE minutes.

Me:  Okay...

Princeska:  You said ONE minute.

Me:  (with Bass-Man in the living room and Princeska in the dining room, I'm looking back & forth like I'm watching an intense tennis match)  I was just saying that I needed to use it for a little bit...I didn't necessarily mean one, exact minute.

Bass-Man:  What?

Me:  Not you, Princeska...I need my phone!

Princeska:  I don't have it, Bass-Man has it!

Bass-Man:  Okay...(FINALLY walks in and hands me my phone)

Me:  Thanks.

Princeska:  For what?

Me:  NOT YOU, YOUR BROTHER.

(Bass-Man gives me a concerned look, like he's worried about my sanity...apparently my kids can't hear the precise frequency of each others' voices)

It went on and on, my friends.  A full two hours have now passed since I initially sat down to write this blog!  I have been interrupted approximately 10,000 times and have had to leave the computer 879 times. I have answered questions, listened to stories and complaints, offered advice.  I have put in movies, initiated crafts, and timed homework.  I have gotten drinks, found missing papers, and pulled out leftovers (poor J didn't get supper tonight).  And, FINALLY, I have blogged!

I. WIN.

Front-Yard Family Football

Just about every night when Jason gets home, Princeska starts begging him to play football with her in the yard.  Just about every night he (being the fantastic dad that he is) ends up outside, in the front yard, playing football with as many of us as he can talk into coming out to play.

Tonight, I wasn't going to go out.  I haven't been feeling the greatest, so I was planning on recouping after supper (you know you don't feel good when you need a rest after a 45 minute meal prep).  I even sat down on the couch after Jason and the five kids who aren't in college went outside...but the peals of laughter lured me out after only a couple of minutes.  I sat on the front step and cheered everyone on, and just enjoyed watching them play.

Tonight, the teams were Lulu & Bass-Man vs. Jason, Buttercup, & Princeska.  After a few plays, Bass-Man protested loudly, insisting that he & Lu NEEDED Buttercup.  (Because, apparently, the 5 year old is an asset on a football team???) But, no exchange of players took place.  On offense, Lulu played receiver and center, Bass-Man played quarterback and everything else.  On defense, they played a strategic-less man on man (Bass-Man vehemently points out that it's hard to have a defensive strategy when there are only two of you...).  On the other team, Jason and Princeska alternated as quarterback, Princeska & Buttercup took turns at center and receiver.  Their defensive strategy was J on Bass-Man, while Princeska & Buttercup used their unusual (but highly effective) tickle defense to neutralize Lulu.  Princeska threw the first touchdown pass to Jason and Buttercup had a long run for a TD (although, the defense seemed strangely sluggish on this particular play and even shouted encouragement to her as she ran her little heart out).  On the last play of the game, Lulu grabbed J and just hung on while Bass-Man ran the ball for the score.  Lulu had a pretty good run and probablyshould've scored (distance-wise), but, unfortunately, she ran across the street in an effort to avoid being tackled!  She may have run a quarter mile, but it was out of bounds...no score!

Bass-Man, directing his receiver.

I'm not sure if Buttercup is picking a flower or picking herself up...

Dad snags Bass-Man, but not before he gets the ball off!

Lulu is carrying the ball...right across the street!

The infamous "tickle defense."

Princeska, making the catch!

The joy of the game...

Buttercup's run to glory.

Every player in action!

Buttercup running the ball!

Poop-tatoes

I'm not sure exactly what the opposite of joy is, but that emotion is exactly what I felt today when our downstairs toilet started exploding with potato peels.

That's right.  Not poop.  POTATO PEELS.  Ones that went down our garbage disposal.  The garbage disposal that is in our kitchen. (Is anyone else humming "there's a hole, there's a hole, there's a hole in the bottom of the sea," yet?  If not, you are now.  You're welcome.)

  

My good friend who moved away recently was back in town and needed a place to nap for the afternoon.  Of course, I offered her the use of our basement. (There's a basement, there's a basement, there's a basement at the bottom of our house...)  The last time I was down there was when my girls who live in the basement ("there are girls, there are girls, there are girls in the basement in the bottom of our house!" Yes, I'll stop.) were gone on a mission trip and I cleaned their room.  Like, I REALLY cleaned it.  That's been a couple of months now and one of the girls is back at college.  Apparently, she took all of the clean with her.  Or, maybe it was still there UNDER ALL OF THE CRAP.  The basement was a disaster.  Lulu and I started working on it frantically and managed to get it bearable so that my friend and her daughter could rest there.  I went upstairs and laid down until the ibuprofen kicked in (pain management...different blog). Heather arrived and went to lay down.  Then our toilet started exploding. 

Jason started yelling for me and I hobbled down the stairs as fast as my crippled up body and growing sense of dread would let me.  He was standing in our tiny, main floor half-bath wielding a mop.  There was (what I assumed to be) poop water everywhere.  

Me:  (stares, immobilized)

J:  (plunge, mop, plunge, mop, repeat) What IS this? (points out the large flakes of STUFF floating in the overflowing toilet) 

Me: That's...oh, gosh.  That's potato peel!

J:  (plunge, mop, plunge, mop, repeat)  Who put potato peel in the TOILET?!?!  

Me:  I don't know.

J: (plunge, mop, plunge, mop, pause, intense stare) You didn't peel potatoes into the toilet?

Me:  I haven't even peeled potatoes lately!  (Just for clarification, I'd like to emphasize that I have NEVER peeled potatoes into the toilet, but apparently my husband wouldn't put it past me...)  We had potatoes last night, but they weren't peeled.

J:  Then how did this get in the toilet?  Did you peel potatoes into the garbage disposal?

Me:  I didn't PEEL potatoes...but Buttercup was picking the peels off of her cooked potatoes.

J: I guess they went down the garbage disposal. (Please not that J does not suspect the 5 YEAR OLD of putting potato peels into the toilet.)

Me:  So...they are coming up in the toilet...from the sink???

J:  Get this water cleaned up!  I've got to go outside!

Me:  How should...

J:  I don't care, but it's going to run downstairs if we don't get it cleaned up!

So, I ran to the garage and grabbed the shop vac, plugged it in, and at the last moment remembered to check for the filter (this ain't my first rodeo).  Of course, not only was the filter on, but the dumb thing was full of dirt and junk.  Imagining the water running down the basement walls, I yelled for Lulu to grab a garbage bag as I unscrewed the filter.  When she got there with the trash sack, we used team work to empty the shop vac.  Finally, I turned it on and started sucking up the growing puddle on the bathroom tile while stressing about what all of this must sound like to Heather downstairs.  Meanwhile, Jason was in the yard, snaking the clean-out.  He managed to break through the clog (or whatever it is that causes things that went down your kitchen sink to come back up your toilet...) and the toilet gurgled and slurped like Jabba the Hutt AND THE FLOOD WATERS RECEDED!  

I was immediately relieved...and then I stepped out of the bathroom and surveyed the scene.  Gross.  I decided to clean up and put away the shop vac, first.  Because I know nothing about shop vacs ( I would like to point out again, here, that I REMOVED THE FILTER BEFORE USING IT TO SUCK UP WATER, though. So, there's that.) and I am the least efficient human being on the planet, I decided to start with the filter.  That filter was really dirty.  Like, it was just caked with dirt and it was completely encircled with hair.  Long, human hair.  And, having completely panicked about water running into the basement (let's all take a moment and blame Jason for this...), I had set that disgusting filter on one of our nice chairs.  When I picked it up, dirt fell onto the chair like ashes from a volcano.  I wasn't sure whether I should wash the filter, but since the dumb thing has to be removed to wet vac, I thought it was a safe bet that I should keep it dry.  I gingerly carried it over to the trashcan that was propping open the bathroom door and proceeded to bang it on the edge of the trashcan in an effort to shake out the junk.  Then I beat it with my hand like a really yucky tambourine.  Then I shook it.  I wasn't sure that I'd actually made any progress with the filter until I stepped away and there was a clear outline of my feet on the floor...where the dust couldn't reach the tile.  Fail.  I know when I've been defeated, people.  I tossed the filter back on the chair and pushed the shop vac aside for Jason to deal with!

So far, in trying to clean up the mess, I'd succeeded only in creating a mud puddle.  It was at this point that I remembered that my steam mop broke this week.  So, here's what I did:

I got out a plastic cup and filled it with floor cleaner and hot water.  I splashed that around on the bathroom, kitchen, and laundry room floors.  I grabbed my Hoover steam vac from the utility room, turned off the scrubbing brushes, set it to "rinse only.  Then, I steam cleaned the tile with it, alternately spraying and suctioning just like on carpet.  And, IT WORKED!  Victory!  Miraculously, none of that disturbed Heather or her daughter and they emerged from the basement sometime later looking refreshed and ready to hit the road!

There are several morals to this story:

*People will never drop by unless your house is a complete wreck.  (Sub-moral:  despite your best efforts, your children will make sure that it's a mess.)

*If you manage to get the house clean before an expected visit from a friend, your plumbing and/or appliances will punish you for getting it together for a change.

*It's best not to delve too deeply into the mysteries of plumbing...for example, the inappropriate connection between your water using appliances and your poop disposing facilities.  You don't want to know.

*My husband thinks I may, occasionally, peel vegetables into the toilet.

Where the trashcan and my feet were.

After I shop-vacced. 

Follow-Through is not My Forte (a rambling blog about a conceptual blog)

This will be my first blog in quite a while...assuming I post it, that is.  I have been blogging every couple of weeks, or so, but haven't actually finished or posted any for months.  I just looked.  I have 32 blog drafts that I've never posted.  It occurs to me that I might have a slight problem with follow-through.

But, I digress.  

Last night (as I was laying awake, as usual), I had a brilliant blog idea!  I was so excited about it that I got up and wrote it down.  What I wrote down was, "How Was Your Day?"  Kind of a theme blog in which I would sit down every night and blog about my day.  You know, like, when you get home from school/work/gallivanting and your mom/dad/husband/wife/cat/goldfish greets you with, "Hi!  How was YOUR day?"  At which point you fill them in on the highlights and the pitfalls.  It would be witty (of course) and sarcastic  and frequently snarky.  In short, it would be HILARIOUS!  You know, kind of "a day in the life" every day...I've often said that someone should follow me around with a camera.  I compare myself to an American, female, Mr. Bean.  (My apologies, Mr. Bean.) Why shouldn't my frequent misadventures be public entertainment for the masses???  Oh, the cleverness of me!  I, eventually, fell asleep, but I'm pretty sure I was enamored with my blog concept all night.  I probably dreamt about how funny and cunning I would be EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.

This morning I realized three key challenges to the genius of my blog strategy:

1)  Life is pretty boring these days.  My kids are in school all day.  95% of the fun/funny/weird/blog-worthy things that happen in my life involve my quirky kids!  Since school started, I have found myself engaging in exciting activities such as: taking multiple selfies with my cat, working through 134 levels of candy crush saga, and re-organizing my lingerie armoire.  I feel nearly catatonic after sifting through the last three weeks for just those examples.  

2)  I hate Facebook posts in which people just run through their day.  You know the ones: "Got up ten minutes before my alarm today.  I don't know why I did that.  I got out of bed anyway.  Went to the gym.  Pretty good workout.  Ran errands all morning.  I spent two hours at Walmart.  They only had two registers open!  But when I got home, I made myself a really good spinach salad.  I put mandarin oranges in it.  I'm going to add almonds tomorrow.  Did some laundry.  Tonight I made spaghetti and we all ate in the living room and watched "The Cosby Show."  It was the one where Vanessa has the Halloween party but she won't talk to the boy she likes even though he likes her, too.  That's a good episode.  Put the kids to bed while the hubs watered the yard.  Now we're going to watch Seinfeld.  Blah, blah, blah, boring, blah."  

3)  Consistency is not my strong suit.  No, really.  

Still, I like the idea of having a definite subject to blog about.  One that COULD be blogged about daily (as if).  One that wouldn't require too much planning and could be easily skipped should another topic be preferable.  One that would just get me writing again.  One that would remind me of how much fun life is when you're looking for the laughter...

So.  Yeah.  I have no idea how to tie up this blog...which is a running problem for me.  My inability to finish what I've started is the reason why I have 32 conclusionless drafts just waiting to be finished and posted.  But, by golly, I'm posting this one.  Even though it's CRAP.  Because, well, because I need to finish something I started.

The end.

P.S.  I find it disturbing that spell check does not recognize Facebook, selfie, snarky, Walmart, or armoire.  "Conclusionless" should probably be hyphenated "conclusion-less,"  but I like it better hyphenless (which is also not recognized by spellcheck. FYI)  Geez.  Tighten up, spellcheck!

It's All Fun & Games Until Somebody (almost) Loses an Eye!

The Laundry:

Although I can think of many painful and horrifying consequences of doing laundry, I'm going to share with you one of my own hair-raising experiences.  It was a Sunday morning and I decided to throw in a load of whites before we headed to church.  Jason, of course, was already there, so it was just Bella, Lulu, and Bubba-Man (who was a baby at the time) at home with me.  I chucked the clothes in, poured in the appropriate amount of detergent, and began to measure out the bleach when the unthinkable happened...without warning, bleach splashed into my right eye.  The pain was immediate and excruciating!  I couldn't open my eye, but keeping it shut burned like fire as well.  I rushed into the kitchen where the kids were eating there breakfast, blissfully unaware of the horrifying torture I had only begun to endure.  Stifling my screams, I leaned over the sink and began frantically splashing water into my eye.  Not enough.  I turned my head sideways and let the cold water run straight into my eye.  After several minutes, I shut off the water and stood dripping onto the kitchen floor.  Nope.  Not enough.  I resumed the position and turned on the cold water.  Only then did it occur to me that water may not be the thing to do for bleach in the eye.  So, I did what any mother in my situation would do:  I remained draped over the sink, water flowing over my face, and gurgled directions at Bella.

"Honey, go in the laundry room and look at the bleach.  See if it says what to do if you get it in your eye," I said to my wide-eyed six year old.  Now, Bella has always been pretty intuitive, even as a six year old, she inferred that a mom with her head in the sink, running water over her face, needed help.  She ran off into the laundry room where she stayed for an excruciatingly long time.  

"What's bleach?"  she finally called from the hallway.

"It's in a white bottle on top of the dryer...it says, "Clorox" on it,"  I explained.  Her lack of response was not encouraging.  "What does it say???" I finally yelled after several more minutes had elapsed (was it too late to save my eye???).

"Ummm...Do you want me to bring it to you?" she hollered.

"No!  Yes!  No!  Is the lid on it?"  

"No.  Do you want me to PUT the lid on it?"

For pete's sake, I had my first grader handling the caustic chemical that was busily eating away at my eyeball!

"No!  Just...go help Lulu and Bub get ready for church."  

As soon as they had all three gone to the back of the house, I pulled my head out of the sink and made a mad dash for the laundry room...my eye molten lava behind the lid.  I screwed the lid on and carried the bleach back into the kitchen with me where I immediately plunged my face under running water again.  Then (and this is really the part that should have been videoed) I proceeded to read the back of the Clorox bottle (which, of course, WASN'T Clorox, but some off-brand...I just feel like I have typed "bleach" a thousand times already here...) with my good eye, head tilted sideways over the sink, water running into the bad eye, blinking rapidly since the water then ran right into my good eye (you know...the one I was trying to read with).  Clearly I didn't plan the procedure enough to have my injured eye on the bottom.  On top of that, I kept having to blow and sputter, since I was nearly drowning in the waterfall that was cascading over my face.  

I finally deciphered the label.  It said that bleach may cause damage to eyes. (No, REALLY?!?)  First aid:  rinse eye thoroughly. (Check!) Once eye is cleared of chemical, go to the emergency room.  (Presumably for eyeball removal.)  Ugh.  I hate the emergency room.  I detest it.  I LOATHE that place.  But, the bleach bottle said to go...and, after all, I assume they would know!  I left the sink long enough to grab a few paper towels, then I wet them and put the dripping wad on my eye.  I checked on the kids who were in various stages of readiness, then called our local hospital and asked to speak to a nurse.  When she came on the line, I bravely, but in great detail, explained my accident, burning pain, and subsequent first aid.  I told her that the Clorox bottle said that I should go directly to the ER.  The nerve of that nurse!  She didn't even pause to think about it, just told me that there was no need for me to come in and that I had probably already washed everything out of it.  "But, the bleach people...the bottle says to go straight to the ER..." I stammered.  "They probably have to put that for legal reasons," she assured me.  But, as I was hanging up the phone I was thinking, "Yeah, for when people SUE them for the LOSS of their EYEBALLS, lady!"  

I briefly considered calling back and asking to speak to a doctor.  After all, she was just a nurse.  She surely didn't have abundant experience with caustic laundry chemicals in the eye.  There are very few things I hate as much as feeling like an idiot, but feeling like a sissy is one of them.  I could already picture that nurse and her scrub clad cronies standing around the nurse's station laughing at me for calling...there was no way I could go in now, vision be damned!  

I managed to make it to church on time.  Make-up applied to one eye only (the injured eye wouldn't quit weeping, and, I was hoping people would notice, too).  My eye did not shrivel and die.  My vision remained intact.  Darn that smug little nurse!

Two important lessons were learned that day.  1)  Never call the emergency room.  If you are ill or injured enough to go to the ER, you will know it.  Besides, if you call, you will just doubt the validity of whatever advice they give you, anyway.  2)  Doing laundry is dangerous.  As much as possible, avoid doing it.  If you must launder (and can't afford to pay someone to take the risk for you), wear safety goggles.

Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness

Because if you aren't careful, you could meet your maker!

The Bathroom:

Last week, I nearly died scrubbing our shower.  It's true! I typically spray one wall of the shower, scrub it with the scouring side of the sponge, then scrub the grout with the toothbrush (I use Jason's, of course), rinse by turning on the shower, then finish by wiping it down with the soft side of the sponge...repeat until all walls, the door, the floor, and the ceiling have been done.  But, this time, something went horribly wrong.  I had only finished the ceiling and one wall when my lungs started burning.  I felt like I couldn't pull in enough air.  I realized that I had trapped myself in our tiny, coffin-like shower, I opened the door, hoping to suck in some sweet, fresh air.  Unfortunately, our bathroom is smaller than most standard closets and has no ventilation.  It wasn't until I managed to get out of our bathroom, our bedroom, and get clear down the hall that the air was breathable again.  Geez, I thought to myself, that cleaner is good stuff!  Chalk it up to excellent house wifery or just brain damage incurred from inhaling pure fumes for 20 minutes, but I went back in.  This time, I left our bedroom AND bathroom doors ajar, propped open our tiny bathroom's minuscule window, and left the shower door wide open.  This time, I got the floor finished and about a third of a second wall when I had to stumble, eyes burning, tears streaming down my cheeks, wheezing like I'd just run a quarter mile (I know...but I don't run, so...) all the way downstairs to get oxygen.  What if I had blacked out in there?  I shudder to think.   I went in armed with cleaner, a sponge, and a toothbrush  and left with burning, bloodshot eyes, a headache, and black-lung.  

Tune in next week to learn about the hidden dangers of laundry in part two of the "Cleanliness is Next to Godliness" series!