PLEASE PASS THE DART GUN

My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's flown the coop, and is at an appointment with what I can only pray is a certified mental health professional who will once and for all figure out what the heck is wrong with her and prescribe the necessary medications to make her semi-normal. Either that, or I hope she's at the grocery store loading up on more dietCoke and Lay's Sweet and Tangy Carolina bar-be-que potato chips, which would be a cheaper and more effective alternative.

As you know from yesterday's post, she went off her nut over the silliest things, so I spent the day in my little fort under the bed nursing my cold and watching the Dow Jones on the financial channel. (So far my portfolio seems to be intact, but I'm not going to change my conservative stance when it comes to investing.)

At about four in the afternoon I peeked my head out to see if we were going to have our tea time, but all I could see was my idiot mo-ther slumped over in the Happy Chair muttering something about it all being "just too much". Typical. I leave her alone for ten minutes and she goes into some kind of existential tailspin that means I'm going to have to make my own damn tea and we'll be talking about "important topics" for the rest of the week.

So I gently noodged her into the bathroom and suggested that she might feel better if she did something productive. Like tweeze her eyebrows or address that unfortunate moustache situation.

Instead, she opened the linen cabinet and proceeded to strew every single bottle, tube, and container all over the floor and then she organized it into categories. Then we had the ceremonial blueprinting of exactly which shelf would be used for what, and then there was the usual basket angst over what would go where, and that was right about the time I decided to go pee on the drapes and just call it a freakin day already.

But I have to say that upon further inspection, I think the old lady actually did a nice job of putting our various parts and sundries in their place, and I think this little exercise might have actually restored a little peace and quiet to Chez Spinster.
Not bad, eh? Almost looks like a real live human being lives here rather than a fraternity of smelly drunk college boys known as Kappa Gamma Moo. And that turntable! The best $3.99 she ever spent. It holds all of the crap that she uses on a daily basis so as not to offend public sensibilities, and if there were ever a man in this house he wouldn't have to complain about her lotions and potions being all over the place.

Now this next picture totally cracks me up. On the left is the soap that Mom uses in the shower, which I'm pretty sure is intended for us menfolk. Then, on the far right is her obsessive compulsive collection of lady deoderant that she then uses after the manly soap so that she can get in touch with her feminine side before putting on her sweatpants and eighteen year old sweatshirt that I wouldn't be caught dead in to mow the lawn if mowing the lawn was something that I was expected to do around here.

You do realize that I'm going to get a big heiney smack for revealing the inside of Mom's closet, but I read somewhere that over 80% of people surveyed confessed that they always open the medicine cabinet when they are visiting someone's home, so I thought I would save you the trouble.

Progress continues on Rusty. I'm not at all jealous of him (thanks for asking). I know that as soon as he is completed he will end up in the heap 'o projects that need to be taken to the Michaels for framing, so he'll be of no consequence to me. Besides, even if Mom does finish and frame him right away (which she says she's going to do), I know who's really in charge around here and as long as I get to lounge about in my little silk smoking jacket and continue my electronic relationship with all of you, I'm perfectly satisfied.

Well, I suppose that I had better go for now. Mommie Dearest has returned and I hear the guest room closet doors being opened. Methinks this might be a good day to hide under the bed. I'm of no use whatsoever when it comes to folding linens and such, so better to be out of the way than in the midst of CrazyTowne on a Tuesday afternoon.

Ciao!

With love from your pal,
Stewey