Life or Something Like It

One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners

One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum CleanersOne Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners

In One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners, this is something no one can make up. Okay, there were Four Little Vacuum Cleaners. There are some things that you should never say outside of the four walls of your home, yet, I am.

This is a no-judgment zone.

I made an epic mistake on my last HUGE quest to de-funk my boys’ room. I didn’t trust my God-given senses‚ÄĒthe literal and figurative ones. Nor did I heed the warning from not one of my children, not two of my children, but ALL SIX KIDS. Honestly, I shooed them away because A) I was trying to hurry, B) The room smelled so bad, and I didn’t feel like any human being should be subjected to that odor (how do boys/men tolerate that stench), C) I feared for their lives in that room D) and I didn’t want my boys to come in (or my girls) and see what all I was doing (aka throwing away).

So, there you have it.

I had gutted the room, except for the beds. We had a set of bunk beds, but there was a captain’s style bed at this time. The beds had drawers underneath the mattress. I had stuff in piles; legos, clothes, stuffed animals, papers, dress-up clothes, etc.).

The Bumblebee

Once I had them in piles, I prepared to move them to their rightful place (i.e., the trash can or the appropriate container or drawer). I whipped out my giant bumblebee yellow vacuum cleaner. Oh, how I loved this vacuum cleaner. I was vacuuming around the piles, just getting up the significant chunks.

First, I decided that I needed to vacuum out the inside of the t-tiny closet. I got the floor good and clean, and I thought it would be good to use the hose and vacuum up around the cracks because it was nasty. The hose is SUPER long (I did love that vacuum cleaner), so I had the main part of the cleaner in the middle of the floor, and I stretched the hose to where I needed it to be. There was no pulling/tugging, and I was intensely focusing on the dirt that had made its home in the closet.

Smoke Screen

When I am focused on something, there is nothing that can distract me. I mean, nothing. Honestly, I am zoomed in and going to town. I noticed a smell of smoke, but I thought it was nothing. Sadly, I didn’t see any smoke. Therefore there was no smoke.

My kids started trickling down the hall, and I heard statements like, “mom, the hall is filled with smoke. Hey, mom, where is that smoke coming from. Mom, I smell something burning.” I’m thinking, “whatever, it’s all good, and do not come and bother me.”

  1. Am. Stupid.

I continue to vacuum, and I glance over at the base of the vacuum, and in my mind, I think, “huh, I thought that vacuum was yellow.” That day, it looked a bit more orange in color. I disregard my thought and press on with my cleaning.

After a few more minutes, I thought the room looked a bit smoky, and an odd smell was going on. I looked over at the vacuum cleaner, and alas, I was in the process of sucking up Catfish’s army pants that are made out of that nylon stuff. It was spinning around the bottom, much like a tire spinning out.

There was the smell of smoke and stench. The roller was going so fast that it got his pants so hot, and before you know it, it was on fire. My vacuum was not orange because I wasn’t paying attention. It was orange cause it was on fire.

I quickly turned off, unplugged the cleaner, and tried to salvage the pants, but the char and burn marks were too much to repair. That, and my vacuum was dead. Dead. Not just a “let me pull the stuff out, and it will run again,” but dead.

Vacuum #2

I had a little vacuum that I used on my hardwood floors. It is a Bissell, and I enjoy it probably more than I should. It makes me happy seeing all the dirt go away and hearing the “ping ping” of dirt pop inside it.

When we first got it, I was so enthralled that I vacuumed multiple times daily. It was so much, according to Big Daddy. He didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as I did. I could use it on the carpet since I was a vacuum cleaner.

And that’s what I get for thinking.

I swept away and thought, “Hey, it looks smoky here.” Yet, the previous day’s problem did not even dawn on me. I was running through the house, getting up the bits and pieces of nasty on my floor, and I realized that a trail of smoke was surrounding me.

I look down, and my sweet little Bissell is on fire. It didn’t like carpet :/

Vacuum #3

I may or may not claim fame to this one.

After I burned up the second vacuum, my friend loaned me hers. I was thrilled to be able to run another big girl vacuum in the house. Stupidly, I thought my last two issues were just a fluke.

I used it.

I liked it.

It made me happy.

I returned it.

I got a call, and Melissa said: “I think my vacuum is on fire.” She went running it to her house, and it was burned up.

Vacuum #4

A friend gave me an excellent large vacuum. It was used but still in good condition. When I was cleaning this week, I once again smelled smoke.

I just don’t get it.

I do not get it.


Life or Something Like It

Fat Girls and Field Mice

Fat Girls and Field Mice

Fat Girls and Field Mice. Let’s pretend you are a fly on the wall. Here I am, heading to bed, when I think to myself. I say, “self, you need to get one of those little love notes from your love notebook. Then, you need to put it in Big Daddy’s lunchbox to give him a thrill.” So, after I had already been upstairs and snuggled in bed at about midnight, I decided that I should do this.

Trying to be Sneaky

So, I grab a note and head downstairs, being very quiet. I think Big Daddy can hear me from across the house, up the stairs, with three fans on and the bedroom door shut. I’m trying to be very, very sneaky. Once in the kitchen, I realized that his lunchbox was in the pantry. I open the pantry door, and what should run over my feet but a mouse. The mouse and I had a conversation, but she had already set up home and had her apron on, and there was no negotiating.

Things I do not do

Now, I’m a woman that can do a lot of things. I do not do three things: 1) get in boats, 2) touch dead, raw chickens, and 3) mice.

So, what does this fat girl do?

She grabs her boobs and jumps up and down, squealing like a 12 yr old school girl. Then, I freeze. I stand there in silence, wondering if the warmth I’m feeling is the fireplace or pee running down my legs? It was the fireplace ūüôā I tiptoe into the dining room, get the big dog bed, and quietly scootch it to the pantry door to prevent the said mouse from escaping.

Next, I run upstairs.

I’m not so quiet as I stand in front of Big Daddy. I am jumping up and down and squealing that there is a mouse. The mouse is the size of Montana. It is living in the pantry, which is very close to my coke. He must; HE MUST go and do something about it. My nerves are getting the best of me, and I sweat in inappropriate places, and the onset of gas could rival any sonic boom.

He finally gets up, fussing the whole time, and ambles (think John Wayne) towards the kitchen. He ever so slowly (Big Daddy doesn’t get in a hurry) goes into the laundry room to get glue traps. He intends to put it down and capture the mouse.

Being the supportive wife that I am.

I stand, on the chair, in the dining room, yelling supportive statements like, “I love you. You are wonderful. Thank you. This mouse is huge. It will eat your feet. Focus! Focus! It’s gonna get out! I’ll get a cat and we can throw it in there” I got several dirty loving looks from him. It was a moment.

Get a Cat

The glue trap method was not working, so he told me to get a cat. I love cats. I do. We’ve had upward of 20 cats in the last year. I stand outside (in my drawers, freezing) and yell for them. Martha comes running up. I grabbed and tossed her from the dining room to the kitchen, where Big Daddy was standing guard. He throws Martha into the pantry and shuts the door.

Funniest Thing Ever

I must say, I snickered a bit when he cracked the door open because he was afraid the cat could not see in the dark to catch the mouse. He was trying to help poor Martha. Every time he cracked the door open, Martha would dodge out.¬†I could feel her screaming “SANCTUARY.”¬†She wanted outside. After failed attempts with Martha, I finally granted her wish and let her out.

Poor Starr

About that time, Starr ran up. She isn’t the nicest of all cats, but I thought her tenacity and hatefulness would do the job. Alas, the same scene continued to play out. Open the door, and toss Starr in. Close the door, crack the door because of pity, and Starr escapes. It was something to behold.

The Last Attempt

On the last attempt (while I’m still standing in the chair being supportive), he throws the cat in one last time. I’m wondering if the cat is going to do her job. Yet, before the thought continued out of my head, here comes the mouse. It is scurrying out of the pantry while Big Daddy is doing a jig. Honestly, I’m surprised the next county didn’t hear the screams coming out of my mouth. I’m ** surprised that I didn’t break my chair because big girls do not need to be jumping on the furniture. Starr goes one way, and the mouse goes the other way.

It Went from Wence It Came

The mouse heads back from where it came under my cabinet. The cat flies out the door, fur flying. Big Daddy yells at me for screaming and “scaring the mouse.” I mean, seriously…I scared the mouse. He fusses at me until he is back in bed.

Didn’t Meet My Goal

I told him, “my goal was to be all seductive and cool and put a love note in your bag. I’m thinking you are just going to have to deal with granny panties. Also, hair long enough to braid on my legs cause I am not doing that again.” As I finally calm down and relax, I hear him say, “you know, mice can climb stairs and squeeze under doors. She may end up in bed with us.” I dreamt of field mice and told my husband that he was rotten.

The mouse is still out there. It is somewhere that is beyond the cabinets. The mouse is just waiting. Big Daddy and I have been outsmarted in a week by a pig and a mouse. Is it just me and my life, or do other people experience this trauma? I mean, seriously.

Where are my nephews and their homemade blowdarts when you need them? *Sigh*


Life or Something Like It

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster Named Nugget and the Complexities of Life. It is a beautiful fall day. The wind is whippin’ through the trees. Oh, and the clouds are floating around like cotton balls. Then there is the smell of burning leaves outside. Sadly, there is also the smell of vomit inside. Ahhhh, you must love these little moments of life.

Sweet Nothings

As I was in a peaceful slumber, my sweet stud of a husband crawled into bed. He cuddles up with what I thought were the whisperings of sweet nothings in my ear. Alas, it was the whisperings of “Peach just puked in her bed.” He sure does know how to get a girl moving ūüôā Bless his precious pea-picking heart, and he took care of the “mess.” He shook out the chunks off the blanket. Alas, it was close to the patio and onto the boxwood outback. He even washed the blanket for me.¬†¬†

Puker #1 & Puker #2

I went downstairs to check on said puker, which was pretty pathetic. She had a puke bowl and was looking a bit gross. I asked her if she wanted to come upstairs and sleep on the couch. She wanted to. So, we made her bed and settled in for the night. All was well in the world. Everyone was sleeping, and B headed off to work. Then there came a whirlwind in my bedroom. It was Boo. 

¬†“Catfish just puked up some sort of vegetables in his bed!” Alrighty, then that’s nasty. Me, I don’t vomit. I’m a great kind of “after the puke” kind of momma. Sadly, the grody stuff, I’d just as soon forego. I walk into his room. There it is, chunky wads of green beans/corn and some other foreign substance. I’m trying not to complete blow chunks while cleaning this nastiness up.¬†

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster

Throwing Chunks

I gathered what I could and took it out front. Seriously, I’m an equal opportunity gal. Since Peach’s chunks were out the back, I thought it would be an excellent choice to throw Catfish’s chunks of vomit out the front. At that point, I shook out what I could behind the boxwood. I walked through the house and realized that my feet were sticking to the floor.¬†

My sweet husband (I am thankful) cleaned out Peach’s bed. He carried the blanket out. In doing so, he was not being uber careful. There were little vomit droplets all down the hall. Oh, it didn’t stop there. They were through the dining room, as well. Also, they were back through the kitchen and onto the laundry room floor. Gross isn’t even the word to describe this moment. I mop, mop again, and then mop for the third time. I thought I had it all cleaned up…that’s what I get for thinking.¬†¬†

4 Down

Since I couldn’t properly get the chunks out of his bed, the mattress, or the floor, I had to resort to the vacuum cleaner. Doctored up his bed, sprinkled baking soda on the mattress and the carpet, and turned around to see Bug, green…not so much with envy, either. She was blowing chunks, as well.¬†

I gave her and D some Phenergan. Then they laid back down. Boo was good, so I let him play the Wii while I laid back down. He took the dogs out and said the “cold air made his belly hurt.” UGH. I had the four sickly kids upstairs resting and the one well one. We cleaned the house and took care of business.

Nugget the One-Eyed Rooster

She was mopping again, and I went out to check the chickens. The four hens and Big Red rooster were waiting for their breakfast and some freshwater. I obliged with joy. I do enjoy my chickens. The boxes my kids and neighbors made were ready for some wood chips. I brought them into the bedroom/bathroom section of our coop. 

There he was, Nugget, aka¬†Einstein. He was perched way up the top of some shelves. I looked at him and realized that something was different. He was missing an eyeball. He has always been the small one of the bunch. The hens didn’t care for him very much, so I’m guessing that they pecked pecked pecked on him.¬†¬†

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster