my weekend (a true story)

So, this weekend we spent a ton of time working around the house, and I only tell you this layout the setting for the rest of this story. Anyway, after painting and rehanging a door and dozen other things Jodi and I are pooped. Andy, my mother-in-law, in her own way, offered to treat us for dinner, not that Jodi and I are that bad off where we need someone to take us out for dinner, but the sentiment is nice. After some discussion, we decided to try out a Italian grocery on the other side of town, described to us as a local, nicer Whole Foods with an Italian flare, somewhere you could pick up organic milk for the kid, some flowers and a cannoli made fresh that day. Along with all the other natural or organic or fru-fru or hipster crap food shite we all eat and love. We get there and though not quite as good as we were hoping for, we had our hopes up for something like a Met-Market in Seattle crossed with Satriale’s from the Sopranos, but it was decent lacking in a few things so it will not be our weekly grocery, but if we ever need a pluot or a tropical fuck fruit, we know where to go. It is a couple towns over, so it took a few to drive there an back. Just long enough for the gallon and a half Costco jug of liquid laundry detergent to plummet to an early death, completely full mind you, and spill all over the floor of the kitchen, where for some ungodly reason the genius who made our house hid the washer and dryer. We have no idea if it was suicide or homicide or even terrorism, I don’t trust the dryer, I think it might be out to get us and breaking off it’s handle might have just been the first act of a violent mind, but all 1.5 gallons are all over the floor. Now let that sink in, that is a puddle of laundry detergent the size of half our kitchen about 2cm think (a bit more than three quarters of an inch for those metrically declined). I walked in and thought it was water, so I walked over thinking that the dryer, said I don’t trust it, had done in the washing machine. And three steps in my feet start sticking to the floor. Was like walking through cold honey.

So, after dinner, since the damage was done and without eating we would have died at that point, and after all the work earlier in the day, the wife and I clean up the floor for hours. Some of the highlights, me using two dust pans to scoop up and pour dingy detergent (who knew soap could be so dirty) into a metal bowl, later me just standing at the sink furiously washing the soap out of the sponges as Jodi throws them back to me after soaking up as much from the floor as she can.

Luke W. McCullough | lm3m @ msn.com | 09.26.2011 | Office @ the clean House of Chaos, Arlington, MA

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