Good day to you, peeps. I just had almost a whole post written that 1) justified my need for a housekeeper every other week, and 2) described the feeling of stepping into a crime scene when either kid has a bloody nose, with pictures of the evidence. The post is no good anymore. First of all, my 13-year-old son—who is very intelligent in most things—just vacuumed. I was impressed because he completed the chore even though I was running errands and wasn’t here to remind him. However, I found the dirt canister in the laundry room where the housekeeper left it after rinsing it out. Huh? Why did he vacuum like that? Because he didn’t realize that anything was wrong, even though dust probably spewed up at him the whole time he was vacuuming. Because he needs to take a class on observation and common sense.
He did not notice that a major part of the vacuum cleaner was missing, namely the part that holds the dirt.
The very same child-minion, the smart one who, at the age of 2 used to perform party tricks like naming all the states and capitals, has also loaded the dishwasher like this:
Pan side up, y'all. He did not think there was anything wrong with this.
So I think that justifies my need for cleaning help right there, and there is no longer any need for further explanation.
The second part of the original post was a colorful description of the crime scene that materializes when either kid has a bloody nose. Remember, these are the same children who have no common sense, so the blood is never contained to bedsheets and Kleenex. No, they turn into crazy people who smear blood everywhere with no regard for polite society, and then they don’t even clean it up. Several times I’ve opened the bathroom door only to be transported to a scene from CSI Miami. Last summer all hell broke loose when we visited my friend’s house in the New Mexico desert. The dry air caused massive nosebleeds for both kids in one weekend. Bloody handprints covered my friend’s white bathroom walls around every light switch, towel holder and toilet paper roll, TWICE. Really, if you told someone to go overboard with blood smears for a movie prop, they wouldn’t even do as thorough of a job as my children did. The messes were amazing in their sheer scope, but the kids didn’t do it on purpose. During every bloody nose episode, I think they’re genuinely shocked and rendered incompetent by what’s going on up in their honkers. Thank goodness the friend whose bathroom we temporarily destroyed was one of my college roommates so she probably wasn’t surprised by my atrocious progeny.
Just a few mornings ago I went to the upstairs bathroom where I found a trail of bloody tissues, which led to drips on the tile, which led to a bloody towel, which led to an entire roll of toilet paper covered in nostril-sized blood prints. It reminded me of a fat, red corn on the cob, and it was kinda cute.
I decided to keep the bloody toilet paper roll so I could take a picture of it for this original post. Well, that’s where I went wrong in trusting the housekeeper. I had carefully placed the bloody toilet paper roll in a really important pile on my bedroom floor. The pile is a collection of broken and disgusting stuff that I plan on writing about someday. Clearly, a good maid should know not to touch a heap of destroyed binders, bullet-riddled paperbacks from my son’s 7th grade reading assignments, chipped glass, old magazines and dusty newspapers, all topped with a blood-dotted toilet paper roll. I tried to cover my hoarding habits with fabric samples for the curtains I’ve been meaning to sew for a year now. I casually arranged the fabric squares on top of the toilet paper so as to say, “Move along, nothing to see here.” It’s not like I was super gross and left the bloody roll in plain sight. But, the housekeeper THREW IT AWAY. (On the plus side, this proves she moves stuff when she cleans.) She never touches any of my other stashes of junk, papers and computer cords, but I guess a bloody toilet paper roll will never be more than trash to some people. It’s sad, really. Maybe she should take an art class. Maybe the same school that offers Common Sense 101 for my kids will offer Trash as Art 101 for the maid. C’mon, people. Sometimes I feel like the only normal person on the planet.