Thursday, January 10, 2013

I'll Raise You a Godawful Mess

A friend of mine has taken to her Facebook page in high dudgeon.

"High dudgeon"...that's a great phrase.

That's probably what one looks like.

Anyway, she's been bemoaning the rudeness and general gall of her recent party guests, one of whom had the temerity to leave a wadded-up beer label stuffed between the cushions of one of her chairs.


I love my friend.

Did I mention she's single?

I mention it now only because my first thought on observing her disgust at the thought of someone stuffing a beer label into a chair was: "I wish I could have a party with beer."

No, not deer. Or water buffalo,
or whatever the hell that thing is.
My second thought - which is related to the first - is that I would be utterly thrilled to find a wadded-up beer label in the cushions of my chair. You know, as opposed to the things that are actually there.

I'm a wife and a mom and a mediocre housekeeper. To put it in a more flattering light, my spouse and child are a couple of slobs and have eroded my formerly impeccable housekeeping skills through the sheer volume of crap they produce in the course of their daily lives.

It goes without saying that I meant more flattering to me.

My friend would be appalled if she reached into my sofa or my recliner or...hell, she'd be appalled if she just walked in when all the lights were on. I'm not saying my house is a pigsty.

Many pigs are actually quite fastidious.
I am saying that I'm a wife and a mom and most days I can't even find my dudgeon, let alone sit down and get it high. I also don't get to throw a lot of fun parties where people get wild and crazy and peel the labels off their beer bottles. And maybe even spill a few cocktail peanuts on the rug.

I can totally sympathize with having a spic and span house and being miffed that someone has used your furniture for a wastebasket. Did I say "sympathize with"? I meant "fantasize about."

The truth is, if I ever got my house clean enough that a rougue beer label would seem out of place, I sure as hell wouldn't throw a party. I'd cordon off my living room with velvet ropes and charge people a buck a head to see the Amazing Not-Trashed-Out Room of Niceness and Pine Scent! Invite a bunch of beer-swilling slobs in to undo my handiwork? Pffft.

But to my friend - and I do love my friend - I would say: don't sweat it. I know you're offended by the wad of foil in your chair cushions. But just imagine you lived in my house. Right now, in the various pieces of furniture surrounding me, you would be likely to find any or all of the following:

Assorted writing instruments

Christmas candy wrappers

Hair clips

Magazine subscription cards

Expired coupons

Dog hair (possibly enough to knit a new dog)

Water bottle caps

Googly eyes

That bookmark I went crazy trying to find the last time I actually sat down to read a book

One or more socks


Some 25-cent piece of crap prize from CiCi's

A lighter (yeah, that's home safety in action)

At least one penny covered with an unidentifiable substance

That very important piece of paper we absolutely could not lose six months ago

Jimmy Hoffa (or at least a vital clue to his whereabouts)

Believe it or not, I do go in and vacuum out those nooks and crannies on a regular basis. It doesn't matter; the peculiar laws of physics that operate in the homes of familes with kids conspire to deposit random stuff via wormholes and shit. Look it up.

In short, I wouldn't get upset if I found a beer label in chair cushions. Hell, I probably wouldn't even notice it. I'd be too busy trying to keep the cat from eating the stale Raisinets.

I guess what I'm saying is, if you ever want to trade your clean, well-ordered place for my messy family ranch, I'm game.






  1. I'm afraid to look under my couch cushions...I'm pretty sure the old cheezies have colonized and started their own community

  2. All but one of my couches have cushions that are attached, so I usually don't have THAT specific issue...
    HOWEVER - if one were to lift up said couches, one would find all of the aforementioned things, PLUS at least half a dozen marbles, stale Cheetos, "fresh" raisins (aka: someone was eating grapes downstairs), fruit snacks, Anne Frank's other diary, a few moonshiners, and quite possibly a large colony of rabid dust bunnies.
    The saddest part is that we vacuum under them no less than every two weeks, so I'm sure that your wormhole theory is spot on.


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