Where Are My Keys?!?!

I had another blog written for today, but I interrupt your regularly scheduled post with this news bulletin: I AM HAVING A CRAPPY DAY!

Actually, it has improved a little thanks to my knight in shining armor husband.

Naturally, I need to tell you about it.

I woke up early this morning because my parents are visiting this weekend and I wanted to pick up a little bit as they will be there before we arrive home from work. They were supposed to visit last weekend, but cancelled due to winter weather.

So I put fresh sheets on the guest room bed, picked up my shoes off the dining room floor and put them away and cleaned kitty litter, toilets and sinks. I folded throws and draped them over couches and put things away. You know…the usual “stuff” you do when company is coming to make it look like you don’t actually live in your home.

Then I brewed my morning coffee and put it in a to-go container and set it on the counter along with my lunch bag, purse and book and then headed toward the stairs with the intention of getting dressed so I could leave for work. Only I heard a loud crash coming from the kitchen, so I had to go back and investigate what disaster I’d be forced to clean up.

My purse, which had apparently been balanced precariously on the counter atop the book and lunch bag, had fallen off the counter and onto the floor where half the contents spilled out and rolled into every far reaching corner in the place.

Sighing, I bent down and retrieved the junk on the floor and tossed it back in my purse. I figured I would organize it again during my semi-annual purse-cleaning day, which isn’t scheduled for another month or so.

So no major biggie.

I went upstairs, got ready for work, then came back downstairs, put on my coat, blew kisses to the kitties and then grabbed purse, lunch bag, coffee cup and book and headed out to my car.

It was then that the search for my car keys began.

They weren’t in my pockets. They weren’t in my purse. They weren’t in the ignition. I even searched my lunch bag thinking it had been a long week and I’m a little sleep-deprived, so who knows what weird thing I could’ve done with the keys. But, no luck.

I searched the floor and, while I didn’t find my keys, I discovered that the floor of my car is REALLY dirty. Not that that helped the situation.

So I headed back inside and looked on the dining room table where the keys usually end up…except that I’d cleared off the table earlier. So they weren’t there. I looked on the floor. I headed back to the kitchen to look again on the floor since my purse had fallen over in that location.

But they’re a big ol’ set of keys and I couldn’t imagine that I’d overlooked them when I picked up the junk from my purse that had fallen out. I hadn’t.

I even walked upstairs and looked through the shoes that I’d put away thinking that possibly the kittens had knocked the keys off the table and they’d landed in a shoe.

Nuthin’.

After about 15 minutes of ever-more-frantic searching, I had to call my boss to tell him I couldn’t find my keys. There was no possible way I could make it to work on time by this point unless I developed the sudden ability to fly. Apparently I sounded slightly stressed (yeah and I’m slightly downplaying it by using the word “slightly”!). I may have even said a bad word or two, but he’s the king of bad words, so it didn’t faze the man. He just suggested I take a deep breath, look again a little more slowly and carefully and get to work when I was able

After another 10 minutes of searching, tears of frustration might have even been involved. I mean…COME ON! I’d driven the car home the night before so they had to be there somewhere!

I searched couch cushions. I moved all the chairs away from the dining room table and crawled on the floor underneath the table in case they were somehow wedged behind a table leg. I went upstairs and searched both bedrooms even though I never bring my keys upstairs.

Somewhere in there the frantic texts to my husband began. “I can’t find my keys! You don’t have them, do you??!” And after a few more minutes of searching: “I need you to come home and bring my spare key so I can get to work!”

And, just in case he didn’t read those texts immediately after it was safe to look at his phone, I called and left a voicemail. It was not, as you might imagine, one of those light and breezy “Hi honey!” kind of voicemail messages.

While waiting for Vince to call me back, I once again returned to my car to check one more time. The lunch bag holding the plastic container with remnants of yesterday’s salad was still on the passenger seat because we’d gone out immediately after work the night before, so I brought it inside so I could rinse the container and put it in the dishwasher.

And then I started to run the garbage disposal.

And then I found my keys.

Oh yes. They’d somehow gymnastically flipped to the left and landed fully inside the garbage disposal while my purse upended the other way onto the floor.

But now they were stuck inside the garbage disposal. Despite repeated attempts, which resulted in a very sore hand, I couldn’t manage to free up the one key that was stuck. It was Vince’s spare car key but that’s probably not of any significance other than I knew that at least the key to my car was most likely undamaged.

Here’s where my knight in shining armor comes in. Vince called and said, “You can’t find your keys?” And I said, “Oh…I found them…but now they’re stuck inside the garbage disposal.”

His response? “Am I allowed to snicker during this conversation?”

My reply? “Uhhh…not if you value your life!”

Yeah, I hadn’t yet developed a sense of humor about my morning. Probably I’m still workin’ on that.

Anyway, Vince came home, hauled out the ol’ toolbox, picked up an Allen wrench, and within two point three seconds, released the key from inside the disposal and I was able to pull out the ring of keys.

Oh happy day!

So he hugged and kissed me and sent me on my way.

And we lived happily ever after.

Well, except that I’m thinking of having a spare car key surgically implanted in my forehead so this will NEVER happen again!

The Squinchy Face

Before leaving for work this morning I cleaned kitty litter for the five millionth time. Which is sort of amazing since we’ve only had these kittens for 48 days (and 10 hours and 34 minutes). Those little buggers use the litter box a LOT.

Nevertheless, it occurred to me that there are a great many chores I do at home that cannot be completed without squinching up my face in a grimace that could easily frighten small children or timid adults.

As if making that face will help the chore become more palatable.

Still, time after time I find myself making that face. Sometimes I even catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror after I have scrubbed the toilet or pulled long strands of my own hair out of the hair catcher in the tub drain and I have to laugh. Remember when your mom told you your face would freeze that way? I’m thinkin’ that maybe mom was right.

Perhaps I’m a little squeamish about things. Yeah, okay, so there is no “perhaps” about it. I AM squeamish about things. Most things.

Like squishing a bug. If ever I am home alone and am forced to handle a bug all by myself, I will pull a wad of paper towels off the roll big enough to squash an armadillo without feeling the thing underneath the paper. Because if I can even remotely feel the bug squish, I screech and jump away as if the now-dead bug has somehow developed magical powers and can fling its gory bug guts at me.

Then I do a full-body shudder and flap my hands around for a minute and make that really bad face. And then, glutton for punishment sort of person that I am, I walk back to the wad of paper towels and scoop the whole mess up and run to the big garbage can in the garage to throw it away. And then I slam the garbage lid down for extra emphasis: Take THAT, you nasty ol’ bug!

Don’t tell Vince, but I think that’s the primary reason I married him. I was tired of squishing bugs on my own. No, I kid. I really married Vince because he’s good at opening jars and is also willing to check the fluid levels in my car.

No, really. I’m just being silly. I married for love – and only love. Besides, I long ago figured out how to open jars, which is basically by never purchasing anything in jars that has to be opened.

Anyway, I’ve decided that it’s a good thing I have a normal job in a normal office where the only reason I have to make a grimacing squinchy face is when the UPS guy takes a potty break and doesn’t use courtesy spray afterwards. Mostly I stay in my office when the UPS guy is around, but sometimes I forget and walk by the bathroom and then not only make the squinchy face, but sometimes am forced to hold my nose while inadvertent tears stream down my face.

Hey, what can I tell you? It’s bad.

Can you imagine if I had one of those weird jobs where I had to be a sniffer tester? Like at a factory that manufactures men's deodorant, for example? No, I don’t think I could handle that job. They’d have to pay me big bucks – and we’re talking well beyond minimum wage for that sort of job!

I’d take a whiff and then I’d do a full body shudder, flap my hands around and grab a wad of paper towels and jam it up in the guy’s armpit. And then I’d quit.

So, no, it’s a good thing I’m not a sniffer tester.

Nor do I think I could be a taste tester. I used to work at a company that manufactures nutritional-type products, and I once volunteered to be a taste tester. For baby formula. Let’s just say that I could not be objective. Yuck. Frankly, I don’t remember being a baby and drinking out of a bottle, but I’m guessing that I probably made that squinchy face back then, too.

Maybe I should practice making a serene face so that the squinchy face lines, which are already threatening to become permanent, do not have a chance to set any further. I have a whole list of chores I could perform to test myself. Like cleaning the vent at the bottom of the fridge that collects all sorts of nasty furry-type debris. Or scrubbing the grout in the bathtub. Or even cleaning kitty litter for the five million and first time.

But I simply can’t make any promises when it comes to the UPS guy. Some things are just squinchy-face-worthy. And, believe me, that’d be one of ‘em.

Project Clean-Up

I went out to lunch with some friends on Friday and, during our conversation, I told them of my weekend plans to finish Project Clean-Up, aka my home organization plan.

I said that I had bins of clothes to sort through and a closet that resembled one of those sitcom closets wherein some unsuspecting character opens the door and gets conked on the head with things that fall out of it like Jimmy Hoffa, bowling balls, hockey sticks, Santa costumes, and other miscellaneous flotsam that got shoved in there back in the mid-70s. In real life, though, I was most likely to get conked in the head by an errant shoe. Plus, there’d be no laugh track. (Well, unless Vince happened to be passing by.)

Nevertheless, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer to get this little chore handled – so telling my friends was one way of ensuring that I’d follow through. I told them they were welcome to write on my Facebook page and embarrass me if I didn’t accomplish this little task.

Nice friends that they are, neither wrote a word about it.

However, I’m happy to report that I did, indeed, accomplish all I’d set out to do.

The first part of the task was the scariest – going through my closet. I didn’t have any hockey sticks stashed in there, but strangely enough I did find half a ham sandwich and my tax returns from 1988.

Nah, just kidding. I shudder to think what sort of person stows partially eaten processed meats in their clothes closet! I do confess, however, that probably – somewhere – I still have my tax returns from 1988. Gotta tackle paperwork next…

Anyway, for the first time in two years, I actually pulled out my summer sandals and sorted them and put them away in an under-the-bed shoe carrier. And I pulled out all those shoes that I never wore because they pinched or the heels were too high, or were just plain ugly and I never did like them (and wonder why on earth I bought them in the first place). Shoes that were worn out went into the Discard pile and shoes that might not pinch some other person in need went into the Donate pile.

Then I moved on to my clothes. This required the use of every flat surface in the bedroom for sorting purposes – plus Post-Its to identify which season the pile included.

This was a task of gargantuan proportion – but eventually I got it done.

Somehow I managed to clear out three dresser drawers so Vince can stop using the guest room bed as his supplemental closet/dresser. He didn’t seem nearly as thrilled as I that no longer would we have to hurriedly shove a bunch of polo shirts into his filled-to-bursting closet whenever unexpected overnight guests dropped by (or even expected overnight guests!).

All I can say is that the effort was worth it. My morning is far less chaotic now that I can see all the clothes in my closet and can pull together an outfit appropriate to wear in 8 degree weather – as opposed to sorting through several pairs of flip flops to find a pair of boots and moving tank tops in an effort to find a turtleneck.

My mission will be complete once I find an appropriate charity to donate several large bags full of clothing. I hauled them to my car and put them in my backseat yesterday with the intention of taking them to the AmVets located near us…only to discover that they are no longer there. Sigh.

Now my car resembles what I’ve always feared being called – The Bag Lady!

This weekend, I’m looking forward to relaxing just a little bit since the last two weekends have been hectic. I might even let Vince decide our weekend plans. I’m guessing they will in no way involve moving anything, sorting anything, rearranging anything, hanging anything or clearing out anything.

And that’s just fine with me!

Where Can I Buy A Giant Shoe Horn?

Vince and I went shopping the other day for miscellaneous stuff. It can only be called “miscellaneous” when you have to shop at one store to replace a broken glass globe for a ceiling light, another store for a bottle of mature multivitamins and a third store for a shoe horn. There was no such thing as one-stop shopping for us the other day.

We went to three stores before we chanced upon the very last shoe horn that Target carried. Vince had a bit of a desperate look in his eye as he practically badgered the clerk into finding another one – any other broken down and ratty old shoe horn they might have lingering “in the back.” Why? Well, because it was an animal stripe print. Only I don’t really know any animals that are hot pink- and black-striped.

The clerk said it was the last one they had and even tried to convince Vince that it was a “manly” sort of shoe horn. The look he gave her caused her to scurry away in hopes of finding something easier to handle, like perhaps tackling a shoplifter or something. In defeat, we ended up purchasing it. Vince wasn’t very happy about having to use a hot pink striped shoe horn, but was a little happier when it rang up as a dollar, down from $10. Frugality wins over manly posturing every time.

I was thinking about that shoe horn last night when I parked my car in the garage. We have so much crap in there I can barely fit the car inside. Could’ve used a giant shoe horn to maneuver the vehicle so that it doesn’t hit the sky-high pile of boxes on the right, or the shelving unit in the front – but leave enough room to get out the driver’s side door without bashing into the trash can on the left. Even worse, we currently have a large carton that needs to be unpacked sitting in front of the shelving unit – so I had even less room to maneuver.

Sigh. We need a bigger garage.

Or maybe we just need to get rid of a whole bunch of junk.

Sadly, I didn’t have that giant shoe horn last night because I didn’t pull the car in far enough, and unbeknownst to me, the garage door scraped the bumper on the way down. Vince noticed it right off when he came home after me – probably because he heard the screeching sound as the garage door scraped the bumper on the way back up, too.

So he kindly moved my car farther into the garage and then also kindly didn’t mention it until we finished dinner. Probably he wanted to have a nice meal together before I got all pissy about the bumper. And, sure enough, I was mad at myself about it all night about it. Not to mention a little sick about it, too.

This morning was a different story. I started to pull my car straight back out of the garage as I do every morning…only I couldn’t. Apparently, Vince had pulled the car in a little too close to the right-hand side of the garage so that it was rubbing up against the sky-high stack of cartons.

I hadn’t moved two inches before one of the boxes lost its precarious hold on top of the pile and crashed down upon the top of my car. I immediately stopped and got out to see the next cataclysmic tragedy that had befallen my vehicle and noticed that the entire pile of boxes was leaning dangerously close to my car ready to topple over at the slightest movement.

Clearly I couldn’t fit between the right side of the car and the stack of boxes to do any good. Heck, a 90lb. emaciated supermodel wouldn’t even have been able to get through there. Nor would a giant shoe horn have helped in this situation. Feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, I walked around to the front of the car, but couldn’t even reach the boxes to move them away from my car.

I stood there for a moment debating whether or not to call my boss and tell him I’d be late as I was feeling a little, uh, “boxed in,” (sorry), but instead figured it was more prudent to shut off my car. No need to asphyxiate myself as the garage – despite the open door – was filling up with carbon monoxide. While scratches on the bumper are upsetting, they are not a good enough reason to end it all.

Feeling even more determined (and a little desperate) to get myself out of this situation, I gave a superhuman stretch and was somehow able to shove some of the boxes out of the way – although not before disturbing another stack of flattened boxes, which slid off and conked me on the head, making my headache even worse.

By this point, I could only shake my head a laugh a little ruefully. It was either that – or scream. And I didn’t want to disturb any neighbors that had the good fortune of sleeping in this morning.

So I got back in my car, started it up and gingerly pulled away from the boxes. And, lo and behold, I was out of the garage without suffering more dings or dents to my car.

I quickly shut the automatic garage door opener without looking at the mess inside because I didn’t want to deal with it. And then I drove like a bat out of hell toward work so I wouldn’t have to explain my tardiness.

I can only wonder what Vince will think when he gets home. He’ll see a pile of flattened box (probably impeding his progress to the back door). He’ll also see either (a) a Jenga-like configuration of boxes haphazardly stacked along the wall ready to topple over any moment or (b) a disturbing pile of boxes lying in the middle of the garage floor because they finally gave up and fell over.

Yeah…I think we’re definitely gonna need that giant shoe horn. It’s either that – or we’re gonna have to rent another garage somewhere. I don’t think my car can take any more dings, dents or scratches and I don’t think I can take too many more shots to the head. I’m dizzy enough.

Hey, Lady - We're Here to Clean the Carpet...Where is it?

Yesterday was one of those busy days when I had lunch plans with one friend and dinner plans with another friend. Who knew that chatting with old friends could be so exhausting? By the time we got home last night around 9:30, I was ready to hit the sack!

Well, in fairness, it wasn’t just the talking and laughing that did me in. I also worked a full day and then, after dinner, met up with Vince and we went grocery shopping. And it was trash night – so that little chore had to be completed lest we risk drowning in the piles of political advertisements we’ve been receiving in the mail lately.

Plus, there were the daily miscellaneous clean-ups and the odd load of laundry to do before we could relax. Hey, no wonder I was so tuckered out!

Tonight is going to be no different. We were invited to a happy hour, but I suspect we’ll need to take a pass on that invite so we can stay home and clear the floor.

Normally, we wouldn’t pass up a happy hour to clean, but we’ve been out of town a lot lately and we haven’t been spending much time on the ol’ homefront wielding the vacuum cleaner or the feather duster.

And we have carpet cleaners coming tomorrow who will only clean “open” spaces. Yeah, right. In our place, that’s basically a narrow path from the back door to the living room.

I suppose if I were to pick up the three dozen pairs of shoes littering the floor between the dining room and living room, they’d have a shot at cleaning a few more square feet. And, okay, so that’s perhaps a slight exaggeration, but there are probably anywhere from three to six pairs of shoes lying around. Hey, didn't I mention that we’ve been busy and out of town a lot lately?

But even on a good day, removing my shoes from my feet and immediately placing them in their proper shoe bins in the upstairs closet doesn’t happen. Instead, I kick them off wherever I happen to land. If it’s the dining room table to eat dinner, the shoes end up under the table. If it’s the couch, they accumulate near the coffee table. And if I plop down on the recliner for a few minutes, well, a third pile begins.

I used to come home and head immediately upstairs to wash my face and change out of my work clothes and into comfy PJs. I’d carefully place my clothes in the laundry hamper and my shoes in the closet. In recent months, however, I don’t seem to even make it upstairs until it’s time to go to bed.

So I’m not crazy about this slovenly habit I’ve gotten into lately, but on the upside, it does make choosing a pair of shoes to wear in the morning easier. I come downstairs in my stocking feet and browse the collection of various piles to make my decision.

I don’t think Vince is crazy about this newly-formed bad habit of mine either. Once in a while he’ll reference the growing numbers with astonishment that anyone could own that many pairs of shoes. Or he’ll make some thinly veiled comment like, “Are those new shoes? No, not those – the ones next to the new-ish boots…”

I assume he’s commenting on both my DSW-shoe-shopping fetish as well as my messiness and hoping that his comment will spur me on to a cleaning frenzy. Yeah, sure. But first, honey, can you get the backhoe from the garage?

On the other hand, he has shoes of his own lying around downstairs. Except that they’re always there. He staked out a spot near the breakfast bar where he keeps a pair of flip flops, a pair of slip-ons and a pair of tennis shoes. These three will pretty much get him through all four seasons, with the possible exception of the middle of winter when we have blizzard-like conditions or more formal occasions such as weddings. And, since his pile never changes, he evidently thinks that it’s only my shoes that need to be picked up and put away.

Whatever.

Tonight we’re both going to be picking up our shoes. I suppose that alone wouldn’t be enough to prevent us from joining our friends for happy hour, but we’re also going to be moving furniture out of the way to give us the maximum “open” space possible. Our carpeting needs some serious attention and I don’t want a measly end table to be the reason the carpet cleaners can’t get to it. Or an errant shoe.

Clean Freak

Our refrigerator has never looked as clean as it does right now. That’s because there isn’t very much food in it – and, believe it or not, I’m sort of happy about that. I cleaned it out last week to make room for the 80th birthday/Father’s Day celebration food and we haven’t restocked yet. I’m kind of digging the emptiness of it.

Yeah, I don’t really like looking in fridges that are so jam-packed that you can’t find anything – including the jam. And, when you actually do find something you’re looking for, more than likely it has become a weird science experiment. In my single days, when I used to run across containers of mystery food featuring fuzzy green mold, I would usually throw the whole thing out – container and all – which explains why I was always searching for containers to put leftovers in. Good thing there are two of us in our household now. Leftovers don’t usually stick around long enough to get to the moldy stage.

I love cleaning out stuff. But then I also like re-filling the empty space. Yep, I’m a little strange that way – what can I say?

It’s like my closet. I’m thrilled when I clean it out and donate clothes that I no longer wear (or the ones I have to iron before wearing, thus those particular articles of clothing never appear in public). Once I’ve gone through the purging process, I’m happy. And for one brief, shining moment my organized closet resembles one of the model closets in an ad for closet re-organization.

But then, of course, I then proceed to fill it back up. But I mean, really, who can live with just five pairs of shoes? Or – like in those ads – three blouses, a couple pairs of dress slacks, a few jackets and an odd skirt and dress? There is so much empty space in those closets, they could do double duty as guest rooms. Provided, of course, your guests don’t mind sleeping amid your dress slacks and five pairs of shoes.

I always wonder about those people who can live with very few possessions. Sometimes I wish I were like them, but I really like my “stuff” around me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not one of those hoarder types who keep every single toy they ever received as a child or every magazine or piece of mail or newspaper ever delivered to their house. I don’t have to maneuver through “aisles” in my living space – or worse – live in a domicile so packed with junk that you can’t sit on the couch or eat at the dining room table.

The other week I found myself in the rare position of being in charge of the remote, which basically means that Vince wasn’t home. There I was happily flipping channels when I stopped at a show on Style Network called “Clean House.” O.M.G. I was utterly shocked and appalled!

That particular episode featured a family who couldn’t use the living space in their house because there was so much “crap” in every room and on every surface. The mother on the program had something like SEVEN sewing machines lying around. (Vince can’t get me to buy even one sewing machine so I could possibly fix a hem once in a while.) And the father, who had some sort of online sales business, kept boxes of every sort in just about every room in the place. And most of them were not broken down, so there was a LOT of space taken up by empty boxes piled nearly to the ceiling. He also owned half a dozen guitars – and the guy doesn’t even know how to play the guitar!

And, yes, I’m sort of guilty of the same thing. I admit that I own a guitar, which is sitting in the corner of my living room. It was handmade especially for me. And, no, I don’t know how to play it. But I couldn’t get rid of it. On the other hand, I also wouldn’t keep collecting more guitars to clutter up the place like this guy did. If I owned more than one, I’d make myself take lessons so I would know how to play and people wouldn’t think I was weird for owning a fleet of them.

Vince came home sometime during the middle of this program and wondered why I was watching it. He kept saying, “What is this show?” Mostly, I think, because he wanted to regain control of the remote so he could flip back to CNN. But I didn’t hand it over to him. I was feeling a little like I feel when passing an accident on the freeway. Sorry for the people involved and relieved that I wasn’t one of those in the middle of it. And a little curious about how it was all going to end.

And perhaps I was even feeling a little smug because never – in my worst housekeeping days – have I ever allowed my home look this bad!

On the other hand, these folks received $5,000 worth of renovations and free clean-up of their mess while they lounged around in a hotel somewhere. (Hopefully they didn’t trash the hotel rooms.)

Maybe I should move all the junk we have stored in the garage and toss it around the living room and then call up this show to see if they’d be willing to clean and reorganize it for free? Nah. One of the downsides in allowing this show to come in with their cameras is that the inhabitants must allow their faces to be shown on national television amid their pigsty of a house. I think I’d literally die of embarrassment!

So I guess I’ll just have to continue cleaning my little abode and hope that I never answer a knock at the door to find the “Clean House” people standing there waiting to attack my mess. Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy my clean and empty fridge.

I suspect, however, that Vince is planning an imminent trip to Costco. Sigh…