measurements & chemicals

About two weeks ago, I decided we should start to gut the garage in anticipation of our rockin' Christmas celebration. The kids and I set about knocking down cobwebs, dusting ceiling fans and scrubbing dog crud and bug guts off the walls. My husband insisted on plastered walls in our garage. I'm not sure why, other than the fact it looks nice and that's about it. Plastered walls in a room with muddy Labradors and no screens is a total hassle.

I gave Dustin a full bottle of 409 and a scrub brush, he went to town. Bless the child's heart, he's a worker and he did all the walls where I located crud and that was almost all of them. Then, he decided to do the inside of the garage doors. Dillon and I helped him finish that, as he was practically gagging from the stench of 409.

I'm used to the smells of cleaning chemicals, however, I'm sure that down the road some oncologist is going to tell me I was in the wrong line of work.

The next morning, Dustin and I gave Miss Euphoric a bath and he helped me hose out the garage. As we were admiring our handiwork, Dustin says to me, "I wonder what this place would look like if just Birdy and Dillon lived here."

"Well, bud, I can guarantee you that the shoe rack would be empty and nobody would be able to park in the garage because there'd be hunting crap sitting everywhere."

Dusty agreed.

Last night, having the time and the manpower--manpower being the issue--we hosed-out the garage and put away all the hunting stuff that doesn't have legs. My legs. Hunting stuff gravitates to our garage but never gravitates back to where it came from. I wonder why that is? If it does gravitate back to it's high-dollar all-shades-of-green hunting room, it's because I loaded it onto the quad and let a child drive the quad to the patio, whereupon we all carry it to the Green Room. And then we leave it in a pile.

I practice and intricate, highly-sophisticated game of passive-aggressiveness. If I am forced to put your stuff away, you ain't gonna like the way I did it. Feel free to do it when I ask you to do it...

I love my husband.

He loves to procrastinate and he hates to pick up after himself. I have to admit, he's getting better. Especially since he's laid-off. He's even been known to operate the washing machine and the dryer. Of course, he had to hunt for those, since he's generally unfamiliar with their location in our house...

We were discussing length last night. Well, I wasn't. The men in my life were. We won't discuss the length of what they were discussing. Just length. And Dusty says, "Yeah, it's just a cillimeter."

Dillon, Birdy and I looked at one another.

Centimeter or millimeter, Dusty?

No sooner than he pops out with cillimeter he proceeds to blame the use of the incorrect word on the fact that he handled too much nitrogen the last time we cleaned the garage.

He's close. 409. It has a "ni" in it.

He's really close.

I love them all and I'm lucky to have them all. One of the luckiest girls in the world, I'd say. A husband that loves me, but more importantly, loves and adores my boys. I may complain about him til the cows come home, but he's mine and I'm keepin' him.

Forever and ever, amen.

Merry Christmas!