This Saturday morning, my doorbell rang. The children each ran to the door, assuming it was for them, because lord knows it wasn't going to be for me. #recluse I sauntered over to the door with morning hair, morning breath, morning face, and morning coffee, and it turns out it was for me. Well, it was for my eternal soul. I happened to be on the phone, because I assumed it was one of the neighborhood kids and didn't bother setting the phone down, so the people at the door trying to teach me about the kindgom of some god went on their merry, albeit early, way.
Of course, they don't know that I spent 17 years in the service of the same god as they are in now, so they don't know that I was totally rating their performance.
My boyfriend giggle on the phone asked me how they did and I said, um, err, they just handed me some literature and left, weirdly considerate. He asked what my old spiel was for when people answered their doors on the phone, and I stammered. Because. Err. Well? What *was* my spiel, anyway? Am I really getting this old?
No, I am not really getting this old. It's just that the last time I woke someone up on Saturday morning to save their hungover soul, the only people who had phones you could carry around with you and use anywhere you wanted to were Captain James T Kirk and his pals at Star Fleet.
Like, yesterday, tvs inside of cars and phones without cords were dreams we had when we weren't busy joking about running out of water one day and stuff. And yet, here we are. Our cars will start themselves for us and our phones are used for killing cranky pigs and my trash can opens the freaking door for me everytime I need to throw something away.
Really. I can't get my sons to open a door for me. Chivalry isn't dead, friends, it's just hiding in simplehuman garbage cans. Whom I am an ambassador for. #disclosure
On a good day, I can get my kids to put trash somewhere in the same zip code as our trash cans. The toilet paper rolls make it to the floor beside the bathroom trash, the recycling will defy the laws of gravity and decency in piles across from the recycle bin, and the tossbale trash from meals will delicately congeal on the counter between the sink and trash can. I have begged and pleaded and threatened and freaked out about this, but what I had never before done was add voodoo to the equation.
This is my black magic trash can. If you walk passed it, wave your hand, and say Allah, peanut butter sandwiches! IT WILL OPEN FOR YOU. I can't make my kids stop throwing things away now. It's *awesome*
This is my soap pump. It is almost impossible to yank your hand out from under it before the soap squirts out, it's that fast. Don't think I haven't blown through a whole bag of soap trying. I am easily amused by shiny objects, shut up.
Why do I love having a soap pump that magically dispenses soap for us faster than you can say child labor laws or soux chef, and a trash can that just opens when I need it to? Because turkey.
I'm no germophobe but I am a turkeyophile and turkey guts, while delicious at 160 degrees and up, aren't so awesome smeared all over the kitchen counters, trash lids, and soap pumps. Smearing almost always = bad. Not sending your nephew home with a raging case of salmonilla poisoning almost always = good.
Also, having two dogs who can't wave and a trash can full of turkey guts that opens by wave-sensing-voodoo? Yeah.
So, I have this extra sensor soap pump. Anyone want one? It comes with lavendar hand soap (but I am a slave to the lemon dish soap, which is made specifically to work with these pumps. Just sayin.) Let me see the grossest, nastiest, dirtiest mess your kids have ever gotten into. (Because we all know you took a picture before you cleaned them up. BLOGGERS.) Leave a link in the comments to your picture, and the best-worst one gets it.