Pantry

I've heard that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone...  I'd say that's about right!  Our last house had an amazing pantry.  Granite counter tops, cherry cabinets, an extra fridge...  It even had a window!  And now I'm relegated to a pantry that barely qualifies as a closet.  I know, a small pantry closet is typical, but still...  Gotta miss all those shelves and the extra fridge--Popsicle, anyone?!

So, The Mister had this brilliant idea that he should build an additional pantry.  I told him that we'd just have to keep extra food storage in the basement...  He just would not listen.  And then he started building his project--without my approval!  I made more than my share of disparaging remarks.  And I wondered who, in their right mind, would agree with him about this being a good idea.

Apparently, in my right mind, I would be the one to agree with him!  That Mister is truly brilliant!  I can't believe that I thought he'd lost all his marbles...  It still sounds crazy, but it is so functional!  The new pantry is in the garage, just outside the kitchen door.  It is accessed by the landing from the stairs that lead from the garage floor into the house.  It is suspended over an additional fridge and freezer which are located at the back of the garage.  

So, I'll do a premature reveal and post a few photos...

These are the stairs from the garage to the house.  

The door opens directly into the kitchen.

The stairs to the right (stacked with boxes) enter the protruding pantry.

This is the pantry--still in need of a door...  

Shelves on the right, a Shelf-Reliance self-rotating can dispenser at the back.

This is a view of the protruding pantry--see the freezer underneath?

The mister is going to add another row of shelves, and we do need to install the light and the door.  Aside from that, I'm ready to start cookin' with my new stash of goodies!  I'll be sure to post better photos once it's done and the garage is emptied enough to really see that it's working (and that my car will still fit in the garage!).  And yes, I will continue to call it the Protruding Pantry...  just FYI...

Thanks, Mister!

Lax

I know that I have neglected my daily blogging for the month.  I'm hoping that the fact that I was focusing on obtaining oxygen for my brain is excuse enough.  Luckily, my cold was short-lived, and I'm back to normal (or my version of normal, anyway...).

I am pleased to say that I've made some progress on the office.  And the kitchen is getting more functional by the day.  We have furniture in the bedrooms (thanks for swapping "junk" with me, Gen!).  And I have high hopes for the laundry room.

Now, if the snow would either provide full coverage, or dry up altogether (along with the accompanying mud), that would be great!  Lola is having trouble doing her doggy-business without tracking mud everywhere!  But, I am afraid that LAWN is a topic that is far (far, far...) in the future. 

Office

I'm not sure why, but my office frequently bears the brunt of our family mess. For some unknown reason, it has become the eternal catch-all location. It's really a shame, I think I would be so much more productive if my work space was more organized... But at least for now, it has become storage for unopened boxes. I guess it's just a fact that sleeping areas and the kitchen take priority, but I still look forward to the day when all cardboard is evicted from my workspace. I dream about the day when my desks are free from the overflow from other parts of the house.

In truth, I think I've encouraged the chaos in previous houses. Not intentionally, but still... I haven't taken my office space seriously enough (or maybe I haven't taken my business seriously enough) and the office has become Craft Central and Computer Game Haven. This time things have to be different. Not just because I say so... But because I just don't have room/storage/patience for it now.

So--here it is...

Stay tuned to see the final results!

Demons in the Microwave

Our microwave is possessed.  Or rather, it was, now I'm not sure exactly how I would classify it.

The freakishly scary behavior started just after we moved into our new house.  I would put a dish into the microwave and it would shoot sparks and make a loud, growling noise.  As if that weren't bad enough, it then started "cooking" whenever it wanted, and would only stop when it was so inclined.  It once melted a microwave-safe dish--I tried to stop the heat...  I pressed cancel, I pressed pause, I opened the door...  That freakish thing just kept cooking!  I was standing in front of it, turntable turning, lights on, heat still emanating from the unit, and the door was wide open!  It can't be healthy to be standing directly in front of a microwave, with the door open and the thing still running.  I yanked it out of the cabinet, dropped it to the floor, and pulled the plug from the outlet.

The repairman (I use that term very loosely) came next.  I'm not sure if I'd rather deal with the possessed microwave or the diabolical  repairman.  He arrived as scheduled and asked to see the offending appliance.  That wicked kitchen appliance but on a deceptive show and worked flawlessly.  (Go figure, right?)  The repairman then charged me $75 and told me it looked like it was working as designed.  I described the usual (unusual) activity that we had experienced but he said that unless he saw that activity first hand there was nothing else he could do.

I played devil's advocate and asked the hypothetical question:

IF the microwave ever did X, what would you say the problem was...?

He told me that IF that ever did happen, the expected repair would cost about $200 (that, of course, being in addition to the $75 I had already paid--a new unit costing about $300).  I said I'd pass on the repair.  duh.

So, we've been dealing with ghoulish growling, malevolent melting, depraved defrosting, corrupt cooking, and all methods of madness.  That is, until last night.  It a final act of dastardly defiance, the microwave tortured me one last time with a blatant refusal to do my bidding.  It held my popcorn hostage.  After a long day, all I wanted was a salty, crunchy snack--and that mean microwave flatly refused.  It popped three kernels and then just kept spinning that turntable and the popcorn bag...  Nothing happened...  No more popping.  No heat.  The lights were on, but nobody was home, so to speak.  And that's how it has remained.  A shell of its former self.  Buttons and lights, motion without benefit...  I hate that thing (but how can you live without one?)!  And now I'll be spending $300 for another one.

Lucky Me!

I've said it before, I'm a bit of a techno-nerd, still shocking, isn't it?  I like the new gadgets, the upgrades, the latest and greatest.  But my current run-of-luck regarding technology has been a bit of a challenge.  

I don't think I've ever mentioned the high-tech aspects of our home.  To turn on the music, TV, DVD player, or digital photo frames, we are obligated to use a specially formatted remote control.  This specially formatted remote control cost us a fortune ($250 give or take a little) and it runs nearly everything...  At least it's supposed to run everything.  The problem is, our remote should look like this:

But instead, it looks like this...

Why is that a problem?  Because there is a very complex menu system that should be visible on the LCD screen of the remote...  Note the cracked screen--our menu is not so visible with that cracked screen.  And that's the problem.  Actually, it wouldn't be a problem if we hadn't lost the additional (and equally expensive) remote.  But seemingly, we have--or at least had.

Sometime during the holidays we lost our remote.  We tore apart the house, the couches, the beds, the closets, and everything else in an effort to locate that expensive remote...  All this searching seemed to be fruitless, as we remained the owners of only one (very sad looking) remote.  A common refrain has become,

Who has the remote?  And where do you have it?

That remote had become a bit of a nomad...  Being hauled from room to room to perform channel surfing on one TV after another...  It's been a busy piece of technology.

I'd come to the conclusion that we must have inadvertently thrown out our remote with the holiday trash.  It's been an annoying few months...

Thankfully, I think I'm arriving at the end of my techno-tragic streak.  I have officially located all the ringing phones.  If you call, I will answer (assuming I'm home).

I have adapted to talking to both the GPS unit and the hands-free feature of my car.  We are all getting along (with only a limited number of outbursts).

And the best news of all.  I found the remote!  Oh, Happy Day!

Why Nobody Answers the Phone.

Nobody answers the phone at my house.  The home phone rings, but HRH knows if it were for her, the call would be coming in on her cell.  The Boy doesn't live here officially, so nobody calls our number for him--so even if he's visiting, why should he bother?  The Mister just has no desire to go phone-chasing.  And The Buddies can't be bothered with a ringing phone when there is a wii to master...  That leaves me.  I am the (un)official phone answerer.   But there's a problem...

Apparently, I've become technology challenged...  Or maybe I'm just telephonically challenged.  Between the voice dialing incident (which was repeated the following day - lol) and this latest incident, it's clear that I have issues with phones.

I'm living a situation reminiscent of Sixth Sense.  But I don't see dead people (thankfully).  Instead, I hear phones ringing.  But I am as accursed as poor Cole Sear (Haley Joel Osment), I hear the ringing, but am powerless to do anything about it but stand by and let it happen.  I hear ringing from my purse--what magic causes my cell phone to vanish into that seemingly bottomless bag?  The ringing can be heard from the AV room...  But there's no phone in there, just a cordless-phone base that rings unhelpfully, taunting me to go rushing in on my fruitless search for a handset. 

On Monday morning I was trying to wrap up an important call while also attempting to get out the door.  I was in a hurry to get on the road, so I kept chatting as I moved toward the garage.  I ended the call as I climbed into the car and pulled away from the house.

Life went on.  I went to work.  The kids went to school.  All was right with the world. 

Three days later the phone rings.  I hear the ring from the cordless-phone base, but there's no handset.  I cannot answer the phone.  I can find the dead handset (why can't anyone put that thing on the charger?).  But I can't find an actual, active, ringing telephone.  Why?  Where is that phone!? 

I'm back in my car.  HRH is rummaging through the bottomless void (no doubt looking for money for the movie) when she pulls out the cordless handset.  She looks at me with that eyebrow-raised look that only a teenage girl can master.  That look that expresses disdain and incredulity at the same time.  And informs me that she has found the phone.

Bless her...

Cleaning Lady vs. Soap Dish

I have a cleaning lady. Actually, it's more of a cleaning team of 5, but I hate to say that because it makes it seem like my house is too dirty for one poor woman to handle alone... Which, now that I think of it, is actually the case... Because I'm that one poor woman who can't handle it alone.

Anyway! I have this cleaning lady who comes twice a month. The main reason I have her (them) come is to wax my floors. I have about 6000 square feet of polished concrete flooring in my house. I hate to wax it, so I have hired out the waxing chore. But, once she is (they are) here, it just makes sense for her (them) to just give the whole house a quick once-over.

I love it that twice a month my house is clean from top to bottom. It smells clean, it looks polished, the carpets are all fluffy and nice... For the most part, it's really great! The only consequence I've discovered is the ongoing destruction of my soap dish.

My soap dish wasn't particularly expensive, nor is it especially attractive... But it does perform a useful function, and I did actually purchase it for that functional reason.

For some unfathomable reason, the cleaning lady has taken issue with my soap dish. After the first cleaning, I noticed a little chip on the base of the soap dish... After I discovered the chip, I thought,

Oh, well... If that's the worst of it, I guess I can live with that...

After the second cleaning, I noticed another chip in the soap dish.

Curious.

And then there were the third and fourth cleanings...


Seriously? What's the deal!? Does the cleaning lady have something against soap dishes in general? Is it just my soap dish? Is she expressing her passive-aggressive tendencies toward me through the soap dish? Does she really hate all the waxing that my house requires--is this her manifestation of her desire to be fired? I can't quite figure it out... What do you think?

Not So Original After All

While in Rome, my husband and I found a beautiful painting. The artist was displaying his wares at Piazza Navona, where we discovered him while waiting for our dinner. He was an interesting fellow, with a unique sales technique. We wanted to inquire about the painting, but first we had to wake him from his late afternoon nap. Once roused from sleep, he seemed disinterested in giving us any information about his work. After a little persuasion, and some persistent questions, he livened up a bit. Although he was very likely high (in fact he readily admitted to smoking pot), he was at least coherent enough to know that we were quite interested in making a purchase... His sales pitch hit full steam...

First, he explained to us that he was a much better artist than the other artists on the Piazza. He claimed that none of their work was original. He claimed they all painted the same scenes over and over and only sold them to tourists. While that may have been true, it really wasn't relevant as nobody else had a piece I was interested in purchasing. His next tactic was to explain that not only did the others paint the same scenes repeatedly, they also copied other artists' works... Again, interesting info, but for me, irrelevant. His next strategy was to show us the finer details of his work... The unique elements that he had imaginatively incorporated into the painting... While interesting, we already admired the piece and were merely curious about the price. He ignored our request for a price, and indignantly continued on with his rant about the lack of talent and ingenuity of his fellow artists... He was quite persistent in his attempt to persuade us that he was indeed a gifted and creative artist.

We declined to purchase the painting the first night because we couldn't agree on a price. But the next evening, we returned to his exhibition to buy our painting. The original painting is beautiful, its subject was created by fluid strokes that flow freely across the canvas. The lines of the object are full of energy, movement, and strength. The colors are warm and rich, and perfect for our home.

We bought the painting that second night. In his pot-induced haze, the artist argued with us about price, then he (surprisingly) quickly and adeptly wrapped the canvas for travel.

Yes, I fell in love with a beautiful piece of art... And now I have a new painting hanging on my wall, which will always remind me of our evenings at Piazza Navona.

The day after our purchase, we were browsing a little shop looking for postcards. I smirked when I discovered a postcard that looked curiously similar to one of our art prodigy's paintings... I told The Mister, I bet I can find our painting online in about 10 minutes... Upon our return, I searched art.com and did indeed find our original painting.

Yep, the original is a beautiful work of art... Unfortunately, it isn't hanging on our wall. But I'm not sorry we bought it. I've framed it and hung it on a prominent wall in our living room. It's not only pleasant to admire, but I enjoy the private joke that is the story behind it's acquisition... And (thankfully) we didn't spend a fortune! Oh, and as an aside, the actual (original) artist credited with this piece isn't even a man... The artist who painted the original is actually Marta Gottfried Wiley.

Is Anybody In There?

I've been exceedingly busy today. In fact, I've been working on a little project that has been ongoing for the past few months. By "ongoing" I mean I've been wishing someone would step in and take care of it for me... But I've decided that it's time to finally get serious and actually do something proactive about it.

Here's some background... I have a moderately sized room in my house. It's a largely uninhabited room. I consider it to be dangerous and largely uncharted terrain. And I have a plan to conquer it.

My children (at times) have found this room to be one of intrigue, brimming with fascinating items. I find it to be not unlike the Bermuda Triangle--things go in, only to never be seen again. I feel that the only safe way to traverse the topography of this room is with the help of a good GPS unit and a locating beacon. I would also recommend the use of quality climbing apparatus, including harnesses, grappling hooks, and tethers. Entrance to this room should only be undertaken after the proper waivers have been signed, releasing me from responsibility for any unforeseen (and unfortunate) events that may occur.

I've been known to get lost in this room for hours. The Mister is good to organize a rescue party to retrieve me from the disarray. The Mister is sensitive to the fact that this room needs to be tamed. He supports my quest for domination and even attempts to assist in the task. The most unfortunate fact about this room is that it has a purpose. It's not some storage room, tucked away under the eaves... No, this dangerous room of lost items and delayed returns is, in fact, my closet...

I decided that today was going to be the day that I conquer the discombobulated mass of my self-created textile labyrinth. And I am pleased to say that I am nearing the summit of my adventure. I have braved the cashmere towers. I have tackled the profusion of shoes. I have scaled the shelves to relocate the seldom-used to points more befitting... And with much sadness, I boxed up the bulky sweaters to make room for the freshly unearthed cottons of spring.

The end is in sight. I have only some minor tidying to do. I've culled the bedraggled, and eliminated the offensive. The highest precipice is within reach. I stand upright. With confidence. In triumph. I've conquered it! I will show my accomplishment with all who care to see. The flag of honor, waving from the pinnacle of the mountain is mine. I've earned it.

Now, where did I put that cute blue purse???

Read the Label!

You'll have to bear with me as I venture into uncharted waters. I don't usually post blog entries about toilet turmoil, potty problems, flushing fantasies, or choked chamber pots. I typically leave the toilet and/or bidet related topics to Dug (he currently displays 30 posts labeled bathrooms). But in light of my new found knowledge, I feel it is my responsibility to warn and inform.

This morning I was feeling particularly grumpy and blurry eyed as I stumbled into the bathroom. I say stumbled because I actually tripped over this package of toilet paper.


I assume you're not overly excited about the package of bathroom tissue sitting on my floor. Believe me, I wasn't too excited to trip over it either! The Mister, in an effort to be helpful, left this package on the bathroom floor so I could refill the dispenser. Typically, I would have done just that. Subsequently, I would have stashed a few extra rolls in the cabinet above the toilet and gone about my day. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn't be at all intrigued by a package of toilet tissue. But then this small phrase caught my eye.


Septic Safe? I always knew that label reading was important. I believe MSG is evil. I endeavor to limit my intake of sodium. I avoid trans fats like the plague. I fret about corn syrup and modified corn starch. But it never occurred to me that I should be reading my toilet paper labels!

Can you imagine the horrors that could be created by frequently feeding your fancy flusher with unfit tissues? The tissue issues could be unfathomable! And for all those tissue rolls that are not certified to be septic and/or sewer safe--are you supposed to wipe with them and toss them into the trash? Ew--not to mention ick!

So, the lesson is this: Choose wisely. Read the labels. Some people say you are what you eat. I suggest that you might keep that in mind in regard to your potty. There is nothing so off-putting as a putrid, porcelain potty.

The Details of Happiness

Sometimes it's the little things that make all the difference. It's the fluffy indulgence of a cashmere sweater. The sparkly buttons on an otherwise plain shirt. The perfect fit of a pair of timeworn jeans.

The Mister and I were just discussing the little details that might enhance our lives with more happiness. More money? More home cooked meals? More time together? More order in the house?

I think it's time to reevaluate the importance we've been placing on certain things. I'm going to make some changes which will probably include fewer shiny baubles, and more quiet moments. That's not to say that I'm giving up all things pretty. But sometimes a happy afternoon playing games and reading books with The Buddies is just as appealing.

There is something so desirable about tranquility in the home. Maybe that's what I've been missing recently. I've felt out-of-sorts for a while. I think taking some time to contemplate and consider my blessings will be of benefit.

Our house seems so full of busy energy and chaotic activity. Some of it is unavoidable with the goings-on of a lively family, but I think there is room to incorporate more serenity. There is nothing more enticing than a calm home that is filled with the love of a family. I want my home to be graced with the sweetness of tender moments. I want the sparkle of enthusiasm, without the volume of mayhem. I look forward to sharing in triumphant ebullience, and to salving the bitter disappointments. I want a home that is a haven from the frustrations of the world.

So, the next time you visit, please try to overlook the toys on the floor. Pretend you don't notice the pile of unfolded laundry. Instead, I hope you find yourself enjoying the loving details of our family.

When The Mister's Away....

I love The Mister. Have I ever mentioned that? I just thought I should start this post by making that perfectly clear--because in a minute you might wonder...


The Mister is away on business. That means he's in Florida (enjoying golf and sunshine) while we remain here, entrenched in the snow. There's something about having The Mister away on business... I always complain and carry-on a little, but really I don't mind so much. Sometimes it seems like we actually talk more while he's away. I think that's because he is forced to stay awake for the meetings and mandatory dinners. By the time he calls, it's late and the kids are in bed, so I get his full attention. When he's home, his attention is divided between 5 kids and household responsibilities, and then he goes to bed early... We hardly ever get a chance to talk when he's here.


And the weirdest thing??? When The Mister is gone, the house gets tidier (and stays that way). I'm still working of theories for that one. I think he encourages more "messy" play with the buddies and then it doesn't always get cleaned up. Also--ever since we've been married I have referred to The Mister as Paper Man. Paper Man is the superhuman paper scattering machine. Once he enters the house, all horizontal surfaces inexplicably become covered with collected bits and pieces of paper... Business cards, receipts, notes, fliers, articles, you name it! I don't miss Paper Man when The Mister is away.


So, if you're in the neighborhood, please stop by! The house is unusually tidy, and I'd enjoy the adult company! And Mister, come home soon, but leave the extra bits of paper at the hotel!

Ice Crystal Filigree

Isn't it crazy what a change of perspective can reveal? We've lived in our house for over two years now, but last night a new sight was revealed.

Last night's storm blew in with a vengeance. When we returned home, it was an unseasonably warm evening. Ten minutes later, I told the kids to turn down the noise. I thought it was the TV or video games, it was actually the wind! But the relentless winds showed their mercy by providing this interesting image on my front door. The snow that swirled around my front porch, encased the filigree of my door with crystallized particles.

Reason to Celebrate

Yes, I am aware that this season is reason enough to celebrate. However, I am inordinately giddy because the tinker-er called it quits and let the professionals take over.

After the ill-fated tinkering attempt of last weekend, it took (only) three days, one Comcast repairman, two phone consults with the whole-house automation guys, and one personal visit from our family favorite whole-house automation guy, Ritchie. Hi Ritchie!!! (The partridge in the pear tree was our next option.)

Since I know you're not as over-the-top thrilled at this life altering event as I am, I'll spare you the rest of the details. Suffice it to say, the phone, tv, and internet are all back to their original working order and it only cost us three days of frustration, many hours of ranting, a few minutes of cussing, lots of ribbing, one scheduled appointment, one impromptu visit, several phone calls, and about $80 in labor fees.

What? No Snowman Butts?

What do you mean you don't have a snowman butt tradition???

Christmas is the quintessential time of year for sharing traditions. Some traditions are handed down through the generations from the "old country," some traditions happen by accident, still others are nothing but premeditated ways to spend time with our families.

I love Christmas because of all the happy traditions I remember from my childhood. But if I'm honest, I have to admit that I prefer the traditions of Christmas Eve to the traditions of the actual Christmas Day. I remember spending Christmas Eve driving 60 miles through the snow to spend the evening with my cousins. Half the time the roads were treacherous and I'm sure we were lucky to arrive in one piece. Once we arrived, the best part of the evening was watching the nativity story in the form of a homemade slide show. The slide show was created using photos of all of us dressed as Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the shepherds, the angels, etc. The best part of this tradition was waiting for that most favored photo.

Our favorite snapshot was not the one with Mary smiling sweetly at baby Jesus. It was not the one where we were standing in the neighbors pasture among the sheep, pretending to be shepherds (but really fearing for our lives--those child-eating sheep!). It wasn't even the one where the plaid pants are sticking out of the angel's flowing white robes. No, our favorite photo was the carefully posed shot of the angel standing on the stoop to deliver his message of good cheer to the shepherds who waited at the bottom of the porch stairs. The reason that we love this particular photo is because of the big, black work boot that inexplicably sits on the window ledge in the corner of the photo. I don't know why it's so funny--it probably has something to do with my aunts gasp of distress the first time she noticed the unfortunate oversight. Cost of one gasping aunt, priceless...

My family has a new tradition. Several years ago I bought a cute table decoration with a family of snow people. I placed it on the kitchen table and thought it gave the kitchen just the right wintry touch of whimsy. What I didn't count on is the contention it would cause at dinner time. It seems that while the family was adorable from the front, nobody wanted to have to look at the "butts" during our evening meal. And just so you don't think these were anatomically "correct" snow people, let me assure you that the backsides were just round balls of snowy fluff--no details--completely G-rated. However, night after night, all we heard was,

Why do I have to sit here and look at those snowman butts?

The snow family was starting to look a little worn, so I decided the place of honor on the table was probably a thing of the past. Last year I placed the little family in the Christmas tree. I thought everyone would appreciate getting to eat their meals without taking their turn with the butts. But no! Now everyone is grumbling because I've ruined the snowman butt traditon.

The Captain Trims the Tree

Do you think Captain Crunch cereal (with crunch berries, of course!) is appropriate Christmas tree ornamentation? Because if you do, that's one thing you and The Buddies have in common.

The tree has been waiting patiently in the corner for the moment when the Christmas Spirit would assault me and propel me into action. (It has yet to happen.) So the tree stands at attention, patient and stoic, lit, but bare, humiliated--I'm sure.

The Buddies took pity on me (and the tree) and decided they would dress the tree for the season. They emptied their kindergarten backpacks and bestowed upon the tree all their holiday art projects. I was OK with that--Santas, snowflakes, what's not to like? But when I took a closer look, I saw the cereal bits and berries nestled into the branches.

While I understand that crunch berries are the perfect, festive color, I really have to insist that they are not appropriate. At least not in this house. While the kitties are doing a fabulous job of keep our house a mouse-free zone, we certainly don't need to encourage a relapse.

Now Accepting TP Donations

No, we are not in the grips of a bout with diarrhea (that was last week). The TP is requested for battling those pesky, and all-too-premature, Christmas Holiday decorators. You know who you are (don't you Sue?).

I know, I know... I'm a little obsessive about acceptable Christmas decorating protocol. As previously mentioned, I just can't help but feel off kilter when the December holidays encroach upon my Turkey Day. While I love Christmas as much as the next person, I want to enjoy my turkey amongst the glorious colors of the fall harvest.

My vision of fall loveliness is hindered by the boughs of pine swagged across the front porch of the house across the street. Flashing lights and singing Santas somehow detract from that feeling of gratitude for all we are blessed to enjoy. So please, I'm begging you, unplug the lights. Put away the inflatable reindeer. Enough with the carols and snow machines. And about the elf named Fruitcake.... really, he never needs to be seen again.

PS. Sue's house looks really lovely. Really! But I refuse to enjoy it until after the Thanksgiving dishes are done! And no, she is not responsible for the inflatables.

Ode to the Easily Cleaned

Leather Couch, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love that when a child vomits (ALL OVER THE PLACE), I can wipe you off and you're as good as new. I love that when a diaper leaks (and thank goodness that we don't have that problem anymore), I can wipe you off and you're as good as new. I love that when my child (who is not allowed to eat anywhere other than the kitchen) spills his *insert messy, wet, soggy, food item here* in your cushions, I can wipe it off and you're as good as new.

Shiny Concrete Floors, how do I love thee?

When anything (anything at all) spills, splashes, or in other ways defiles you, it takes nothing but a broom or a mop to make you pretty again. Bleach doesn't scare you and Lysol is your friend.

Comfy Blue Denim, how do I love thee?

Wash and dry (without the dry cleaning bill), need I say more?

This is dedicated to those with puking children. May we all get some sleep tonight!