Some people have described hell as a state of being acutely disappointed in oneself. Aron Ralston described hell as being trapped for days in the bottom of a cold dark canyon, alone.
But I discovered today that hell is actually ironing a bunch of enormous curtains.
If I do not live well, when I die, I believe I will be made to forever launder giant applesauce and Dorito-stained drapery panels and then spend an eternity trying with heat and starch to make them look crisp (it's impossible, btw).
I loathe ironing, which didn't help this cause.
So much effort, so much time devoted to a fruitless task. My boys don't give a Fig Newton that I have spent the better part of two days undoing the damage they have done to the window treatments. I have a feeling that unless I turn into an anthropomorphic female Great Wall blocking their access, they will be right back at wrapping themselves in the curtains, while wiping their hands and faces thereon.
It's such a first-world problem, it's ridiculous. As I cursed to myself while wielding the hot iron, I deep-down thanked heaven that I had a house free from typhoon damage in which to hang some curtains.
Cursing while giving thanks is one of those delectable ironies which is not lost on me.
I'm tremendously grateful for the boys who live in this house, and for the house that is taking a beating from the boys. There's a destructive symbiotic relationship happening with our abode and it's hard-livin' occupants. The guys are wrecking the floors, the walls, the mouldings, the toilets, the sinks, the light fixtures, and the window coverings (obvs).
Jeff and I are trying sooooooo hard to keep pace with the boy-caused destruction. We clean things. We repair things. We replace things. But it's difficult to keep up. Just this week, Jeff pulled with his pipe snake an action-figure, a fist-sized beanbag, and three toothbrushes from the toilets of this house. We are a sewer-system catastrophe in waiting.
Also ironic: that we are being undone by things put in toilets which don't belong there, while the poops are landing daily anywhere but toilets. As I bathed the five- and two-year-olds tonight, Jack tagged four areas of the house with his BM.
Maybe Alanis Morrisette should write a song about us.
You should write a song about it. Alanis is fine, but you are finer. By far.
ReplyDeleteYour writing is so eloquent. And funny. My husband says you should write a book, get paid the big bucks for it, and then you can buy whole new window treatments instead of having to iron them. I'd buy a copy of anything you write--or two or ten--just to contribute to your anti-iorning-fund.
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