The Buckets

My little brother had his graduation party on Saturday afternoon. Well, it officially started on Saturday afternoon. It unofficially started the day he was born, and we've spent 18 years building up to the day where we'd have to put on a party that is good enough for he-who-is-holier-than-the-golden-calf. I know they love him more. It's fine. I'm not bitter. At all.

Anyway, after much partying and congratulating, the last people left at 6:00 p.m., which was six and a half hours from the start of the party. As a normally non-social person, I had to lie on the floor for awhile to recover. And then, it was time for a little something my neighborhood likes to call "beerthirty" (or would it be beer:30 p.m.?) alternately known as "gutter beer" depending on where you're drinking. As we were drinking on the back porch, I felt a little more classy about the inevitable outcome: getting drunk with my parents.

It all started with Mike's Hard Lemonade, and ended with shots of hard alcohol. I have never been in such close proximity to my childhood bedroom AND so tipsy in my life. And so white trash feeling. It's only a matter of time before I'm cooking Hot Pockets and watching NASCAR.

There was also mention of Ma and Pa Kettle and some family named Clampett. I don't know who my parents were talking about, but if our neighbors are The Kettles, would that make us The Buckets?

NeatFreak

I am a strange dichotomy. Or, to quote someone pretentious and with a beard: "I am vast, I contain multitudes." (Walt Whitman, if you didn't know.) That is to say, I think I am two people.
I know what you're thinking, and I promise I'm not going all crazy-Sibyll-I-need-meds-now! girl. Or girls... It's just that I am one way when at school, and another way entirely when at home. Is this normal? Let's discuss!

For example, the cleaning situation. When at school, I have the cleanest room in the house. No really, it's always a show room and everyone tells me how clean it is. Let's ignore, for a moment, how third grade proud I am of this fact, and focus on the fact that at home, which is where I am right now, my room is an absolute mess.

I have a pile of clothes, clean yet unfolded, that are precariously close to the floor. A Rubbermaid container full of stuff, still not unpacked. A stack of books that is knee-high, sitting next to my bed (I always read multiple books at once) and within easy reach. And, the worse sin of all, an unmade bed. And I'm not even kidding. If you lived in the sorority house with me, you will be aghast right now. I know, it's not like I'm living in dirt, but the clutter doesn't seem to bother me, while at school, this would be enough to send me into a Fabreze frenzy.

Speaking of which, have you ever been in a Fabreze frenzy? Either whipped into or otherwise, this kind of frenzy is all kinds of fun! LP and I were just discussing how much we like to clean, and I have to say, I enjoy Fabrezing above all other things. It just makes you feel cleaner and better smelling, not to mention allergen reduced, if that's the kind of thing you go for. As we can tell, it's the kind of thing I go for, wheezy and allergic to everything as I am. Even if the Fabreze does nothing of the sort, I feel less allergic and I sleep better.

Fabrezing, however, is only seconds ahead of one other product in the We Like To Clean 5K because of it's powers in the allergy department. If Swiffer should ever also reduce allergies, Fabreze will have to bow out gracefully, because I do love all things Swiffer. The wet jet, the dry mop, the handheld Swiffer duster - the possibilities are endless! My only regret is that my flat next year has carpet in the bathrooms, thus limiting my potential Swifferable surfaces.

So, in conclusion, I'm not really sure why I am not compulsively cleaning right now. A psychologist would probably say that, because it is summer vacay, I am so relaxed I don't feel the need the have control over everything in my life, thus, my OCD tendencies have also gone on vacay, perhaps to Tahiti. I might just say that working several hours each day as a corporate retail whore makes me too tired to do anything, let alone clean with my usual compulsive gusto.

However, the most important question to be asked after all of this is still begging to be answered: Do you think Walt Whitman Swiffered?

Just FANtastic

I have been awake at 4:00 a.m. for the past few nights. And by "few nights" I actually mean the past five nights. Now, I am pissy if I get less than eight or nine hours of sleep, so imagine what a ray of sunshine I am if I have to give up an hour of my precious recharge time, and at 4:00 a.m. no less. If I could make phone calls or discuss matters of great importance, then fine, I'll sacrifice - but 4:00 a.m.? The only thing you can do at such an ungodly hour is jump on the bed and then eat cookies, and frankly, I'm getting tired of that.

I have no idea why I am waking up at 4:00 a.m., it's a mystery. I have never had any trouble sleeping, and the older I get the more likely I am to fall asleep mid-sentence or while eating a sandwich or something. So why I cannot sleep in my delicious princess bed is beyond my grasp. The only reason I can think of is because I'm hot.

I am a hot sleeper, I'll admit it. I wish I wasn't though. Some people luxuriate in a warm bed, but I cannot stand to be hot. So I keep my room at sub-zero temperatures, and then layer on the clothes and shiver my way to sleep. I can't explain it.

But then, during the course of the night, the clothes come flying off, (not to mention the socks and extra blankets) my feet are enflamed, and I have singed the hair of off anyone within 10 feet of me. Perhaps this is why I sleep alone?

I have always been a hot sleeper. When I was five, I had a pair of Strawberry Shortcake footy pajamas (the pjs with the tractioned socks attached, if you weren't cool enough to own a pair.) In the middle of the night, convinced that my feet were on fire, I threw the mother of all tantrums and my parents had to cut the feet off the footy pajamas while I was still WEARING them. This should have been a sign.

So last night, (at 4:00 a.m.) was lying awake, contemplating how I was destined to live a tortured life as a hot sleeper, forever waking up and having to furiously fan myself to become cold enough to sleep again, when I discovered something amazing: the fan switch.

What, you didn't know you could switch the direction of the ceiling fan so that it would blow cold air DIRECTLY on your hot sleeping body? ME NEITHER! I only found out about this at dinner on Sunday night (thanks a bunch, Dad!) I think my parents have been keeping this from me intentionally, the humor of a hot (and disgruntled) sleeper in too many clothes is just too funny for them to give up. Well, newsflash parents: you two totally owe me a pair of footy pajamas.

Yes, a new age of sleeping has been ushered into room 17 at Hacienda Kappa Delta. An ice age, if you will. Bring on the socks.

The Sound of Music

The Mezzanine bathroom of our house has been recently redone. It's pretty much a spa, and I spend as much time in there as I possibly can. The warm and cozy atmosphere is great for things like face washing, tooth brushing, and also reading and doing the occasional tap dance (we have good tile.) There is also a shower radio, which is really useful for when we decide to stage a musical. The upstairs bathroom will soon be just as fabulous and I can't wait.

But I really can't wait, because while our upstairs bathroom is out of comission, we have to schlep around the house in our towels, using different bathrooms, carrying our shower caddies around like little homeless people who have a lot of shampoo but no real clothes - it's tragic.

This morning, however, the tragedy truly hit home. I was in the shower, minding my own business, (I really try not to mind other people's business, especially while in the shower) enjoying the nice tile, thinking about my day, when someone else got into the shower next to me. And then, all of a sudden, my delicious showery silence was interrupted by none other than EMINEM. Yes, EMINEM. Was there. Gratuitously cussing from the shower radio.

I'm not easily offended, especially by bad language. I'm Italian - bad language is a genetic thing. But EMINEM? In the MORNING? Ridiculous. I think the radio was offended too. After all, it's become accustomed to the show tunes.

I hope it's not contagious

Disclaimer:
This is an actual conversation that happened in my dining room at 9:00 a.m. this morning. In telling you, I am assuming that you remember I live with 20 girls, three housekeepers, one house mom, an old repair man, and a part-time chihuahua named Stella. You've been warned.

The Cast:
B - House mom who spends inordinate amounts of time smoking and trying to convince us to redecorate by making all the furniture purple, paisley or a combination thereof.

John - Old repair man with lisp. Drinks Mountain Dew like it's his job, which maybe it is, because that bathroom we're paying him for is still not done.

Me - I like shiny things and I write this blog. Also, I eat bagels for breakfast. This will be important for later.

Ashley - Sorority sister who lives down the hall. Enjoys sports, sleeping, and making me squirm.

The Scene:
John - "Well, I think we need 100-watt lightbulbs. Those last the longest."
B - "Well the ones we have in there now don't last very long at all. Those advertisers decieved me!"
Me - Silently and innocently eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Enter Ashley, wearing sunglasses.
Me - "Hey Ash, why are you wearing your sunglasses in the house?"
Ashley - "Well, my eyes are infected, and so I'm really light-sensitive right now."
B - "Is it conjunctivitis? Because my son-in-law had that, and his eyes were pink and gooey and-"
Me - Staring at and no longer eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Ashley - "Well I don't think they're very conjuctivy yet..."
Me - "People I am EATING!"
B - "Well it was just the most awful thing I ever saw in my life, that's all I'm saying."
John - "So did you still want 100-watt?"

I hope she doesn't pass it along to the dog. She already had mites, I don't think she can handle any more.