Trade-offs, or Good Vs. Evil

We all have our things with cleaning. Even those of you us* who hatehatehate housework have something that you like. Whether it be your Roomba, or huffing Pledge, we all like something. I, personally, cannot get enough of the smell of my laundry soap and would rather have a root canal than have to part with my excessively large stash of stain-removers. I like stains. I kick stains asses.

My husband simply cannot live without Windex. He loves it. He couldn't care less if the entire house had a hurricane blow through it (not true), so long as the coffee table shines. Turns out, he's not the only one.This, of course, is the most awesome awesomeness ever. This means I just got one less chore to do. She loved it. He sprayed; she wiped. She told him where to spray and he obliged.She and I have fun cleaning games, too; she'll grab a sponge and say, "Cwean, Momma!" and then my kitchen cabinets get scrubbed, but this was dad and she sorta has a crush on him and now they have this new game to play together. It's important to have someone who shares your obsessions passions.You know what's not awesome in any way about this whole thing? The fact that all of this happened at 11:30 in the PM last night. Eleven. And Thirty. At NIGHT. You see that bottle in the very corner of the picture? That was as close as she came to it for hours. Someone needs to talk to this kid about the human body and it's need to sleep.

No, really, I love housework. It's, like, my total favorite thing ever. And if you believe that, I also have some beach-front property in Denver I'm looking to unload.


How to repair a Wii in 10 easy steps:
  1. Watch your wife totally lose her shit over a little jingle in the Wii.
  2. Sit back calmly as wife goes at the Wii with tweezers and stuff.
  3. Giggle when you remember the fate that befell the old VCR, and the $75 bill incurred 8 years ago to remove $0.73 from car cd player.
  4. Listen as wife calls EB Games (site of purchase).
  5. Wince when wife hangs up and calls Nintendo.
  6. Shiver a bit as you hear words like, "Not covered under warranty" and "shipping to where?"
  7. Clutch wallet in one hand while wife talks on the phone; start shaking the Wii with other hand.
  8. Notice slight glimmer in wife's eye at the mention of Richmond.
  9. With no way to know that wife has been looking for an excuse to go have coffee with this chick, but fully aware that something has made her very happy indeed at the prospect of driving to Richmond to drop off the Wii, and being quite certain that's it not that "I just found a way to save $20 on shipping" glimmer that she gets when she's cheap, ATTACK THE Wii. Go out it with ruthless abandon. Try to open the casing. Get out the really little screwdriver. Get that sumbitch fixed, and quick. She's got something up her sleeve, that one.
  10. *Timing is crucial on this step* Right as wife (is she flirting with the Nintendo dude or something? Why the hell is she so happy all of a sudden?) writes down Repair Order number, right as she's doing it, close eyes, hold breath, pray a bit, and extract one small, white button that goes with nothing in this house from the belly of the Wii.

Voila! The Wii is repaired, you just saved $75, and now your wife doesn't get to go hang out with bloggers. Mission? Accomplished.

(mushy) Sunday Secret

I am not a girly girl. I like motorcycles and grease. I have 19 piercings and am planning a cleverly placed tapestry of tattoos. I own more hoodies than shoes. My favorite smell is sawdust. I am not afraid to pick my undies out of my butt in public settings. I'm tough, I really am.

But I swear to Jebus, if Anne of Green Gables comes on the tv, I am useless for the next 15 hours.

Like, can't function useless. Like, cannot stop watching it no matter what useless. It kills me. I whimper, I shed tears. One night, we were moving and we had literally 6 hours left to be all moved out, and at 1 am we flipped on the tube and there it was. Needless to say, we were late.

This show tugs at every cold, dead heart-string I have. Now that I'm all grown-up, I like to hide this little problem I have behind a well-moderated obsession with all things Jane Austin, but Jane Austin can't suck you back into your 13-year-old soul like Anne can.

Oh, Gilbert Blythe. Oh how I swoon. Swoon, I say.

I get giddy at the thought of my daughter being oh, I don't know, 8 or 9 and old enough to get the angst behind these stories. I'm going to read her every single book. And then we're going to have a Ding-Dong & Chocolate Milk movie marathon. And I'm totally going to sob, I know it.

Because I am a great big softy, that's why.


Sarcastic Mom has this weekly photo meme where you can submit your favorite picture from the week to, well, show off your mad picture-takin' skilz or something.

I haven't played along yet, but sheesh I love this picture.I mean, come on already. The closed eyes, the greasy ecstasy, the juicy drips on the favorite green sweater. That, friends, is Thanksgiving at its best. And so, I humbly submit it for their vieweing pleasure.