arghhhhhh

Finally I shed the clothes that have been on the bod for fourteen hours — thrown on at 7 am after all shower time/hot water was eaten by the teenagers — donned with FULL intention of being switched out no later than 8:30 am, after wonderfully long hot shower.

But no. The day flies by in a swarm of stuff, with change of clothes (and hot shower) a lost cause.

Finally the muddle of the day has been cleared, everything is all shiny clean (except me), and I head with great expectations into the bathroom. To find the last of the clean towels claimed by the Y-chromosome-challenged in the house (i.e. those challenged by bearing the Y chromosomes). Also the soap used down to a sliver by same folk. Because noone but me could possibly fold and put up towels. Or tear the wrapper off a bar of soap.

To top it all off, they both use my razors. Even bright pink ones. I mean, do they have to be quite so confident in their masculinity? Apparently yes. But mostly with razors, not soap wrappers.

Puppy Love

I’mboredboredboredbooored…hmmm…must attack the Jujubee…

YEAH baby now THAT’S what I’m talkin’ about! Full body slam!

umm…helloooooooo? She’s eating my face here people!

AWOOoooooooooo!

itchitchitchitch

wrestlewrestllwrestleCRASH!

Who? Us? No way! Nuthin’ to do with that lamp!

Proof

A few days ago I commented that if you take your dysfunctional family and square it, you’ll get my crazy-ass version.

The thing is, I try to avoid superlatives– even implied. Okay so anyone who’s ever been around me could call major bullshit on that statement, as when I talk to Dukie or Clarence I call them the ‘best dogs ever’ and sweet husband is the Best Boyfriend Ever and the babies are the shit… but that’s all semantics. Like I’ve always told the babies, you have to learn to win graciously and lose gracefully, because in this world there Michael Jordans and there are Gerry Flecks (remember the guy on ‘Best in Show’ with two left feet?) and we all fit in there somewhere.

My point is this: Even if I say my husband/dog/cornbread stuffing is the best, and even though to me they really ARE the best, I get that everyone else’s husband/dog/whatever is their best. I’m an exhuberant person, but not a competitive one, and rarely see things as black-or-white (live in the grays! but that’s another story…).

Having said all that, my family is truly the craziest. After 43 years of living amidst us, and observing the world around, it’s all pretty clear to me. I’m going to offer proof over the next few months, interspersed among life its ownself. Anyone want to join the party? Put your family on the table and compare? Drag the nutty maiden aunt out of the attic?

If you wonder what brought this on, it was one of the 12 (TWELVE!!!) messages on my voicemail just now. There was my mom, leaving a message about frightful weather and the joys of Thanksgiving– all in song. Mind you, this is not being offered as proof of anything. Singing on voicemail is nothing in my family. But it did make me think about where ‘normal’ is marked on our family barometer. And there you have it.