Vacuuming is hard

Yesterday, I took on the chore that is usually reserved for the one who spilled something on the floor, or who tracked dirt in. The chore I dislike ALMOST as much as doing dishes. I vacuumed. I dislike this chore, not because it is difficult, but because my vacuum is faulty. It smells like burning lint when it runs, it makes noises that make me wonder how long I have left before it blows up in my face, sending shards of whatever was in our carpet into my brain. So, long story short, I hate vacuuming. But I did it. I did my entire room, even making sure to get up the hay that was on the carpet due to a little pet problem. I stopped, feeling victorious, and decided to take the rest of the afternoon off, right after I put the vacuum away. I bounced up the stairs as bouncily as someone can while lugging a 60 pound hunk of heavy-duty plastic. I happily wound the cord up and set it at the top of the stairs. When I got back downstairs, I was awestruck by the mounds of dirt forming a perfect trail from where I turned off the vacuum, all the way up the stairs. There may have been cursing, and throwing of shoes involved. I trudged up the stairs and got the vacuum. I reassembled the hose and took to diligently sucking up all the dirt and lint and, yes, even hay. When I finished, I turned it off with a grunt and smiled smugly. Surely, that did it. I lifted up the vacuum, and again, dirt was clumped underneath. I screamed and beat the vacuum against the wall, flinging dirt everywhere. I came to the conclusion that it was time to take apart the trusty sucker, and find the problem. Now, I like to think I know a lot about machines. Even machines shat from the bowels of hell, like the one I was working on. But, I have never been so confused in my life. I gulped and decided to just pick around, unclogging this and that. I got a huge clump of hay out from the internal hose, after quite a struggle. I picked up the pieces I had scattered everywhere and put them back where I assumed they went. I stood up and turned on the vacuum. For a few seconds, it ran smoothly. I smiled, pleased with my work. There's nothing greater than the sense of accomplishment that comes from completing a difficult task that-oh, yeah...then I heard the snap. There was a loud pop, a grinding noise, and suddenly, a cloud of black smoke erupted from under the vacuum. I screamed, turned it off, and did a nose-dive behind the couch. As my vacuum coughed and gagged, I was in a fetal position awaiting my demise. Death by vacuum. Well, I waited what was probably 5 or 10 minutes and worked up the nerve to peek out. No more smoke, no more noises. I JUST WANTED TO VACUUM.

So far.

I slept last for an hour last night. Well worth it, I'm just a bit tired. Dad and I got into three fights, a record high, this morning. The first was about the garbage. The second, laundry. The third, whether he was going to leave me at grandma's or school. Reluctantly, he complied with my forceful request to bring me to school after much screaming at each other. I waited outside the library for an hour waiting for the librarians to unlock the door. I was greeted by a pat on the had and a "scan in, honey." I looked down to see that my ID was NOT in its normal place around my neck. I now owe another 5 dollars for another ID. Also well worth it.
     I also have a craving for pineapple. No significance to this post though...

I have swallowed a large, fat Spaniard. He was called brussel sprout.

Smooth Peanut Butter

     The past few days have been that of folly and sadness. I have been upset from the tips of each hair on my giant head, to the soles of my giant feet. (With such huge features, you'd think I'd be a big person) See, I've been...well, not myself lately. For the past year, I suppose. It's quite unfortunate. It's ruining a lot of things for me. I think what I need to do is have a little fun. Depression is a heartless bitch, and creates lots of problems, after all.
     Obviously, when I got on-the-spot hired at Arby's yesterday afternoon, that was a quick turn of events. And, with my hanging out with Jadon today after school, there's more to look forward to. I'm going to take this opportunity to tell my life to keep going well. And my body. Or, so help me God, I will feed it smooth peanut butter.

Life and Its Lemons

Ever heard the statement "If life gives you lemons, make lemonade?" Well, that is complete and total crap. Life gave you lemons, not sugar, lemons, and water. If, in fact, you COULD make lemonade out of the metaphorical lemons life gave you, I would not be complaining. I would be sitting in the sunshine, drinking a glass of life liquid. But no. Lemons are also a very bad example. Some people, myself included, very much enjoy lemons. They are a tangy treat. They're like a food AND a drink, all in one, and you can use it on virtually anything to create a lovely accent. That is not how life's lemons work.
     Yesterday, someone had the audacity to put their hand on my shoulder and say just that. "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." I half expected her to end her sentence with a 'gosh-darnit' and a hillbilly knee-slap. She had a gleeful smile and a bounce in her walk.
     Lately, my life has been less than perfect. Not homeless old man horrible, but pretty close. I lost my job in April, thus making April what I could only WISH was the worst month of my year. Turns out, that wish was in vain. May has become the poster-child for horrible months. At this point, I could chop off a foot and it would be considered comic relief.
     Summer vacation is about a week from beginning, and I am less than pleased. I am about to embark on a three month journey through what I can only assume is hell. Yay. I plan on spending my summer isolated from the world and cranky. That is how it is projected. How would I prefer spending my summer? Swimming, staying with the Bigleys, hanging out with friends...oh, yeah...and drinking lemonade. So, for all the idiots who describe life as an entity that presents lemons to sad-sacks and complainers...go lick an electric fence. I will forever hate you.

Mae-isms

I was making a sandwich last Saturday, licking the barbecue sauce off my fingers joyfully, when Mae plopped herself down on the counter beside me. Terrified at the impending argument that would probably follow, I turned to the side.
"Whatcha doin?"
"Making food."
"What kind?"
"The kind you eat."
"Toast?"
"A sandwich."
"That's not a sandwich!"
"Yes it is."
"Sandwiches don't have barbecue sauce."
"Toast doesn't either."
"You're weird."
"I know."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you weird?"
"Because my mom dropped me on my head."
"Your mom must be REALLY strong!!"
"Why?"
"Because you're fat."
      Yes. Meet Mae.

Sunday Morning With the Bigley Family

Every Saturday for nearly three years, I have spent the night with my aunt and her hilarious bunch. And every Saturday for nearly three years, I have had the most interesting Sunday mornings of my life. This last Sunday was no exception. I woke up at around 6:30 to the sounds of the piano being banged on gleefully, possibly by a little girl in spandex pants and a bathrobe. Meet Mae. She's seven. She's something special. About that time, I heard a young boy screaming at little Mae. "SHUT UP, MAE! EVERYONE'S ASLEEP! YOU'RE GONNA WAKE THEM UP!" That would be a little boy in camouflage underwear. Meet Kyler. He's also something special. Well, I rolled back over to try and sleep through the chaos, but after a few minutes, I quickly realized that Mae had found another instrument. A toy flute. Oh, the joy. I put the pillow over my ears and shut the door, hoping to eliminate some of the noise. No dice. As I rolled over again, I realized that both of the dogs and both of the cats were in the room with me, staring at me intently. I sat up and warned Artie (boy-dog) with my eyes not to lick me. It seemed to be in slow motion, but I watched his tongue come out of his mouth and inch its way up my arm.
     "Okay, that's it." I got up and let them all out, only to be hit in the head with a toy of unknown origin. As I set out to find the thrower of the toy, I tripped over a hula hoop and sent myself plummeting over a cat, and onto the floor. Both kids were in the living room by this time, laughing hysterically over something they had done or stuck something to. I let out a deep, knowing sigh. Just another Sunday with the Bigley's.