My sister cracks me up! She has a way of taking everyday occurrences, and transforming them into comic genius. I am so excited to have her guest posting today, and when I move to Washington I am going to force her to set up a blog so you can continue to bask in her hilarity. Enjoy!
I found a spoon under a box full of styrofoam in the recycling can today.
Maybe that doesn’t sound like such a big deal, but let me explain.
We have been using this particular can for five years now. It says on the lid what can and can’t go into it.
Cardboard, paper, cans, plastic bottles, YES.
Glass, aluminum foil, and all other plastic, NO.
Styrofoam isn’t even mentioned because everyone knows that’s not recyclable, right? RIGHT??
It took me one reading to get it. In five years I have not been able to get the message around to the rest of the family. Glass and aluminum foil they understand, but I have to constantly pull butter tubs, Cup O’ Noodle cups, old binders, wrappers, and take-out containers out of the bin.
Also, my spoons are slowly disappearing.
At one point, before I got married, I had a full set of silverware. Eight each, big forks, little forks, big spoons, little spoons, and butter knives.
I had all 40, intact, for several years. Within a year of my marriage more than half were gone. Tired of never having a knife for my peanut butter, I bought a brand new 63 piece set, on sale at Macy’s.
Twelve place settings plus three serving pieces.
Around the same time my friend got me another set of eight. They were really pretty so I kept them, too. For those of you doing the math along with me, that’s roughly 120 pieces of silverware.
I started to notice recently that I could never seem to find a clean small spoon when I wanted one for yogurt or coffee or other things that a large spoon would be wildly inappropriate for.
So the other day I decide to take a count.
Dishwasher: 2, sink: 3.
And the kids had supposedly just brought all the dishes in from the rest of the house.
Filled with righteous indignation, I snatch up my measly collection of five teaspoons and march into the living room. “Alright,” I say, “I am not imagining this. There are FIVE spoons left. I should have at least TWENTY. Who is taking my spoons?!”
My kids have this neat trick that they can do.
When something is missing and I ask if anyone’s seen it, they immediately do a fantastic impression of a bowl full of goldfish. Eyes wide, mouths gaping, they are a united front, a wall of blank expressions.
They have never taken a spoon.
In fact, they have never even used a spoon.
“What are spoons?” their innocent faces say.
But this time I am not having it. Somebody is going to ‘fess up, so help me.
With the Mom Death Stare I affix each of them in turn. No one’s talking, but I’m not budging. Finally, trapped, they play their last card: The Baby Did It.
You would think that nothing ever got lost, broken or spilled in our house before she came along, the way she gets the blame for everything. But when someone says, “Prob’ly Jorja is hiding them somewhere,” it’s just too likely for me to argue.
I start to tell them that we are going to tear apart the house until the missing spoons are located, but my husband intervenes, corralling me back to the kitchen and calming me down, because we just picked up and he doesn’t want to do it again. When we move the couch a few days later and find a few rogue spoons it seems to confirm the Jorja theory.
The rage beast inside me had subsided.
But today, sick with a cold, tired from no sleep, worn out from a week with no school and frustrated by the abnormal amount of people being stupid at Costco, when I take a box out to the recycling and see there the box that our new coffeemaker came in, stuffed with styrofoam and toilet paper (somebody had unrolled all of it), and under that, twinkling up from the bottom of the can, one of my missing spoons, a spoon that could only have gotten there through someone’s carelessness, it is all I can do to keep my composure.
I want to scream.
I want to sit on the porch and cry.
Instead, I go inside, put the spoon in the sink, find a pen, and write this.
I feel better.
And, since I’m thinking of submitting this to Melissa’s blog, I will end with a question.
What drives you crazy, and how do you deal with it?
UPDATE 4/12/2011: My sister and brother-in-law’s six-year anniversary was two days after this post. He bought her a new set of silverware, and he drew that picture of the goldfish in the bowl for her! Way to go, Jonathan!
Janelle is a wife and mother of four who is desperately trying to finish college and get out of pizza delivery before her 30th birthday at the end of this year. She enjoys sitting, daydreaming, and farting around on the internet when she should be doing any number of unpleasant things like cleaning or homework. She can often be found staying up way too late at night commenting on blogs.