Mommy Wants Vodka

One of my goals for the new year was to “spend some time living outside the computer, even though the real world is fast and scary and full of people who wear jeggings.” It seemed a bit loftier than “Not become Lil Wayne” (which I should add, is a resolution I’ve managed to keep for an entire month and a half now) and loads better for my self-esteem.

See, people are all, “bloggers are introverts who have no social skills and hate crowds of people,” which makes me all, “um, not so much.” Because while I may greet you for the first time by humping your leg while eating a hot dog, THAT DOESN’T MEAN I DON’T HAVE SOCIAL SKILLS. In fact, I’d venture to say that it means I EXCEL at social skills. Just ask all the people who have restraining orders against me.

What can I say? I’m a friendly sorta person.

But when I dared to tell myself that I had to be more social, the Universe was all, “bwahahaha, sucker,” and threw me a wicked case of the flu. Two weeks and counting.

(and yes, Pranksters, I’d go to the doctor if I actually had something worth treating)

So when my good friend Dana showed up at my house unexpectedly, I was all, OMG A REAL PERSON IN MAH HOUSE. I ran around frantically to find a hot dog to eat while I humped her leg. It was pretty wicked to have someone over. Especially since I can now make people spend at least ten minutes oohing and aahing over my purple-flavored walls.

We sat and caught up for a couple of hours while Amelia performed tricks in front of her Auntie Dana like a good ickle show-dog. It was nice. I can’t remember the last time I spent any amount of time with someone who didn’t want to talk about work.

(what, me a workaholic?)

(you shut your whore mouth)

She also noticed how clean my house was, which made me all barrel-chested with pride. See, I like a clean house. Problem’s been that my husband works a kajillion hours a week and doesn’t seem to care one way or another whether the house looks like a shot out of a Hoarders episode or not. I’m not entirely convinced he’s not blind.

Plus, the three crotch parasites used to delight in pulling absolutely everything out and leaving it in one ginormous pile for me to break my toes on. I tried to keep up with the mess, but damns, it was hard.

Then a magical thing happened.

My children grew up. They got anal about house-cleaning. Dave started giving a shit about the house. The Guy on the Couch helped me clean.

And most importantly, I have been sticking to my other OTHER New Years Resolution – “one a day.”

I’ve been donating, dumping, and throwing away one thing every single day. It sounds really hard, right? Like, one thing a day for a year is a fuckton of shit to dump. I hate committing to things that take a year (mostly because I’m an impatient sea-hag).

You know what?

It’s been easier than I’d thought. I’ve managed to get rid of more than one thing each day, which means that my house becomes more manageable each and every day.

In the same way that it feels good to hear, “damn, you look like you lost weight” when you’ve been dieting, it felt amazaballs to hear “your house looks the best I’ve seen it,” from someone who knows you well.

(others might have been offended, but not me)

Now if only I could find a home for that stupid monogrammed embosser thing I’d bought (while probably drunk) that I’ll never use.

Dear Netflix,

I’m not entirely certain why you added to my list of recommendations, the show Hoarders, but since you did, I had the compulsion (see what I did there?) to watch it. I’d never seen the show, Netflix, because I figured that seeing 10,000 empty bottles and rotted animal carcasses was not exactly my idear of a good time. Now, if they’d showed people eating their weight in Captain Crunch, that’s another story. In fact, you should make that a show. I’d so be there.

Anyway.

For the first time ever, I chose to watch the show.

First, let me say that watching mentally ill people do wacky things isn’t my idea of a good time. I know mental illness. I HAVE a mental illness (PTSD IN DA HOUUUUSE!). I work with mental illness on Band Back Together. I’m intimately familiar with it and generally have no need to watch other mentally ill people be, well, mentally ill.

But you got me there, Netflix. You did. Since you told me I “should” watch it, I did.

I’m going to be honest here - I wasn’t as horrified as you might think. I’m not sure that’s an entirely good thing, though.

But I will give you some props, Netflix, for suggesting I watch Hoarders. Never, ever, have I wanted to get up at 11PM and clean my house. Never. Ever. And the only reason I haven’t done so yet is that I realized I’d wake up sleeping children which, Netflix, isn’t exactly full of the awesome.

Frankly, Netflix, I’m in debt to you. It’s like you somehow read my blog and knew that I had a super sekret (read: lame) resolution this year. No, not the whole, “not become Lil Wayne” thing, because that’s sorta a given. It would take a hell of a lot of sizzurp to turn me into that….um…thing.

But it’s made it hella easy for me to WANT to go down to the basement and somehow dry out 9,473 cans of ancient green paint to throw away. I suddenly cannot WAIT to donate my old clothing to charity. My children’s toy bins full ‘o’ crap shall be emptied!

(I think, Netflix, I’m going to donate some of the nice kids clothes to the Band Back Together auction this spring, because an Internet Garage sale seems awkward)

My resolution, thanks to you, Netflix, will be fulfilled.

So to you, Hoarders (and Netflix), I am forever indebted. Although, you do owe me some bleach for my eyes.

Love,

Aunt Becky

P.S. If you recommend I watch Intervention, I’m canceling your ass.

P.P.S. You should know better than to suggest I watch the Super Mario Brothers Super Show. That’s just cruel.

(Source: mommywantsvodka.com)