Wednesday, November 14, 2012
What the What the What?
This is a picture of my house in happier times. Specifically, the times when someone who wasn't a lunatic lived in it.
Then we moved in, and the crazy began.
A little backstory:
My mother usually hosts Thanksgiving at her home, which is just around the corner, down the street, over the river and through the woods from my place. She has a big finished basement that is just the right size for the umpteen gazillion of us.
But two weeks ago -- with no consideration for anyone else's feelings -- she went and had a double knee replacement.
That's right. Double. As in both knees. She's an animal.
So, yesterday, I was with her at the rehab center where, if she doesn't stop mouthing off, she will live out her days, and as she lifted weights, she told her Occupational Therapist that I'm not a very organized person.
The evidence of this, she posited, was the fact that I own roughly nine thousand Rubbermaid bins, into which I attempt to file and categorize my life, only to become frustrated when I can't get my kids to stop eating in my kitchen and dirtying their clothes, and just stay in the garage like they've been ordered.
When I suggested a change of subject (I believe my actual words were, "Zip it, old lady, or you're walking home from this joint") she just laughed and went right on not zipping it.
First my kids, and now my mother. Is there anyone my threats actually work on?
As if that weren't enough, she continued by comparing me to my sister, Jill.
Jill, the sister who never sits down.
Jill, the sister whose house is so immaculate all the time you could perform a kidney transplant on her coffee table.
Jill, the sister who was born with a glue gun in one hand and Martha Stewart Living in the other. (It was a tricky delivery.)
Jill, who lives a mere 50 yards across the golf course from me, and who has an awesome finished basement, because she and her husband can go to the Parade of Homes armed with nothing more than a camera phone and a ruler, and then come home and replicate all the cool stuff they saw without any plans or contractors or marriage counselors. They are both just ridiculous.
So. Back to Thanksgiving.
This year, Mom can't host the dinner because (she whines) "I can't go up and down that staircase with these bum knees." Honestly, it is always something with that woman.
So Jill suggested we find someplace else. Someplace where everyone could fit comfortably. Someplace close to Mom's house so she doesn't have to travel far for dinner.
Someplace ... like MY house!
MY unorganized house!
MY house with the unfinished basement and the nine thousand Rubbermaid bins scattered helter-skelter!
MY house where the largest room is the broom closet!
We'll be bunking the chairs, for crying out loud! Seating people in an 'eight around and three high' formation.
And do you know what's even worse?
We're eating here because Jill nailed me on a technicality, in the sense that "technically" I volunteered.
I am so sick of people reading texts that say, "Well, I suppose we could have Thanksgiving at my house" and assuming that what I meant was, "Well, I suppose we could have Thanksgiving at my house."
So now I have to move furniture and scrub toilets and lock the dog in the attic. I have to measure rooms and round up card tables and make food assignments.
But the good news is that this will finally motivate me to get organized. This time, I mean business. Of course, I'll have to make a quick trip to Target for one more bin, five feet, nine inches long.
With extra knee room.
Posted by DeNae Handy at 6:09 PM