Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Did Blogging Save My Life?

I'd been blogging during the day--something I should never do. Then I realized my kids were too quiet and knew something horrible waited in the future.

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So, I pried my fingers from the computer's keyboard and slowly tip-toed upstairs. A strong smell of manliness weighed at the air. It reminded me of men's deodorant or cologne. I continually sniffed the air, like a bloodhound on a criminal's tail. I passed my oldest daughters "The Scribe" and "The Hippie." I eyed them sceptically at first until deciding they were innocent. The only one in danger from their schemes was Ken; all the Barbies vied for his love, stalking him like a violent mob. I went to the next room where my baby girl still slept; she's such a tender one. Then as I continued down the hall, I realized the smell poured from under my bedroom door.

I knocked slowly, worried for what would be inside. My little boy whispered in his two-year-old voice, "Mama say, 'no no.' No. No. Mama." That was a sign of the dark side. He felt guilty about something and needed to confess his sins. I knocked again, even more politely, gave him a few seconds to mend his ways, but had a hunch that hours would not be long enough.

"Mama's here, darling. What are you dooo-ing?" I kinda sang it, just to keep the worry from my voice.

"Not!" He opened the door, came out and shut it behind him. The boy stood proud, like a bird of prey. His bare butt stuck out and his chest puffed. He stared at me, defiant in his nakedness. I gasped! Whenever that kid gets naked it's the worst sign of all. When he does horrible things he's always naked. I don't know if it's because he wants to be like sinful Adam in Eden, but it's serious.

Remember that day he put my credit cards in the vent? He was naked! The day he tried vacuuming the cat's tail. When he put gum in "The Hippie's" hair. When he threw a bowl off the fridge. When he ate all my chocolate! He was naked. Clothes keep that kid in check! I need to duct tape them on him so I'll stay sane!

Not only was he as bare as a yucky picture, he'd smeared blue gel all over his body, wanting to be the future of Avatar. He smelled like a ball of potpourri and the whole thing made me terrified to enter my room.

"The Hippie" and "The Scribe" must have smelled the intrigue in the air because they circled around us and waited for me to open the door.

"What have you done?" I looked at my boy and whispered like the last air from a deflating balloon. I trudged into my room and saw blue footprints leading to my bed. An empty bottle of men's body wash lay scorned on the floor. My boy had covered the entire bed in intricate blue designs, iced everything with body wash, all the blankets, the pillows, the fancy comforter . . . It was A MESS, but too my relief, the main part of the mess was on my bed.

Now let me tell you, I felt my brain boiling to soup. It heated and dinged like an overly cooked entree. But I remained tough and didn't want to wake the baby from her nap. So, for the sake of napping babies everywhere, I took the whole thing in stride. I sighed before breathing deeply. "No, no," I said.

"Mama say 'no no'," he repeated and I glared. I bet my face looked like Medusa.

I gathered all the stuff and shoved it into the washing machine. I kinda punched it down in there because it felt nice punching something that wreaked so much.

Right after I started the washer, "The Hippie" told me to sit by her in the T.V. room. I sat and she said mystically, "If you stay here long enough, you'll realize something."

"Like what?" I sat down.

"Well, if I tell you, you won't realize it."

I snorted. "Fine." So we sat there. I figured we'd be safe enough--since my boy had clothes on.

"The Scribe" and my son saw our meditations and decided to run around us.

"The Scribe" talked as she ran. "I'm Santa." Her voice went low. "And . . . I'm a zombie."

What is it with zombies? They're everywhere lately. Not even Santa is safe--apparently.

"The Scribe" chased my boy around. They laughed and laughed. "Don't let me get you. If Santa bites you, you'll be the worst kind of zombie. A Zombie Elf!" As if Zombies Elves are the ultimate bane for our planet. Plus, it's February! Why is she still talking about Santa anyway. He should be old news by now.

So, they continued running around. My boy turned into a Zombie Elf and since they're supposed to be so evil I felt shocked his clothes didn't disappear as soon as he contracted the disease. It's crazy how much Santa gives; he even shares diseases these days.

I realized then that "The Hippie's" eyes had remained closed the entire time. "Do you feel it?" she asked, her eyes still shut.

"Feel what?" I asked.

"The way the world's spinning. If you sit here long enough, you can feel it . . . in the air." She opened her eyes, licked her finger and held it out. "Just try it, Mom."

So I did. I licked my pointer and poked the air with it. To my surprise, I did feel something. I felt the floor below us shaking and then heard the wha-bump wha-bump of a cannon going off in my washer.

"Wow, I've never felt it like that before." Her nature-loving eyes beamed. "The Hippie" is hilarious! But I wasn't amused then, too concerned with the washer.

I ran downstairs and gaped. The washer had turned into a rabid dog. It shook and foamed at the mouth. It groaned and whined with the scraping of metal against an awkward load of clothes. My three oldest children surrounded me. I screamed so loud the baby woke from her nap.

"The washer's about to blow," I yelled. It shook around like a possessed toy. I stepped into a cloud of bubbles and moved faster than a ninja trying to end a war. I slipped and slid, but finally turned the washer off.

My heart still whomped louder than the load had. I slid next to the machine and sat in a poof of bubbles. "Laundry sucks," I said and looked at my children.

"Don't blame the laundry," my oldest daughter said. "This whole thing is my fault."

"Why, honey?"

"Because I shouldn't have turned the washer into a Zombie Elf."

I laughed SOOO hard. Then a thought hit me and I said it aloud. "I can blog this. This whole story would be perfect for my blog."

I normally would have cried, sobbed amongst the bubbles and manly smelling blankets, but instead I smiled, happy in the madness because I have a blog.

So I had to tell you, thank you for reading this and inspiring me to write because blogging really did save my life!