Archive for the ‘The J-Man’ Category
June 13th, 2011 | Author: trancejen
So, it’s my kid’s thirteenth birthday today.
If you’ve been reading me since I was attempting to get him to stop hiding his dirty Pull-Ups in his dresser drawers, this may come as something of a shock to you, as it kind of does to me.
Am I ready to be the parent of a teenager?
The teen-ager-ness has been slowly oozing out – there are six different kinds of Axe deodorant and body sprays in his bathroom, he wears contact lenses most of the time now, and his smart mouth is equal to or perhaps beginning to surpass my own.
Thirteen years ago, I held a slightly orange baby while slightly stoned on morphine. I looked down at his large eyes and face so like my own and thought, “Just what the hell are we going to do with each other?”
It’s definitely been a long, strange trip. From beads up the nose to toilet floods to wandering in the street while I lay passed out to learning to ride a bike to calling 911 on the neighbor kid to everything that’s come along with it, the J-Man has never provided a dull moment, save the times he’s been glued to the XBox.
Now that I think about it, there have been a LOT of dull moments.
We’ve discussed poop at the dinner table, mastectomies over breakfast, and menopause while getting ready for school. I think my child is the most well-informed person on the planet regarding the body and all its foibles and functions, thanks to this sick family.
He’s seen surgeries and seizures and has come out a strong child who is good to have around in an emergency and entertaining to have in a hospital room.
All in all, I’m proud of my kid, and I think he’s going to be a fine teenager, and a fine man.
I told him this morning that I would forgive him for being a smelly rotten teenager. He replied that he’d remember that when I asked him to start driving me around.
Touche.
A teenager. Sometimes before I go into his room to wake him up in the morning I still think I’m going to find a toddler in a bed with a rail on it, a chubby cherub curled up to one side clutching a blanket and an Elmo doll.
What a trip.
Please forgive me my little burst of nostalgia. My kid’s thirteen today.
Happy Monday.
June 14th, 2010 | Author: trancejen
So, yeah, the Summerbash.
First of all, we got there about two hours early, because the kids were ridiculously hyper and excited, and a pre-party was promised.
The pre-party wound up being a few scant booths in the Toyota Center parking lot and a stage on which a very small boy was rapping. People seemed to be into the small boy/rapper, but I was more into the fact that they were giving out free samples of Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee, because I knew that this was the only free shit I would score all damned day.
After waiting in line for a while and watching the two 14-year-old poster children for Abercrombie and Fitch in front of me make out furiously until I was nauseous, we entered the arena.
The first thing I noticed was a margarita stand. Strange, I thought, since nearly everyone I saw looked underage, and I figured I’d only see the odd beer vendor.
I was so, so wrong.
This place was packed to the max with alcohol. Mai tai stands, rum runner booths, vodka lemonade stands, margarita joints, all at the low low price of at least ten dollars a drink. Beers ran from eight to twelve dollars depending on the brand and who you bought them from.
Needless to say, I only had one eight-dollar beer, and that one hurt my little Jewish heart quite a bit as it went down.
The kid from down the street was sent to the show with only twenty dollars, but of course he wanted a t-shirt, which were twenty-five. I was faced with a dilemma. Should I let the little miscreant buy a shirt, floating him five dollars to do so and then pay for his food and drinks the whole evening? Or should I say, “Hell, no,” and make him buy his own food and drinks, which he actually didn’t have enough money for in the first place?
I let him buy the fucking shirt.
Pushover?
Yes.
I also bought the J-Man a shirt.
Total spent so far after only walking a few feet into the venue: 30 dollars.
We found our seats, which weren’t too bad, and sat down. B96 on-air personalities came out every so often and screamed at the crowd, and they had a few deejays spin some tunes, which weren’t too bad.
The opening act was a boy band that I believe was called Wow, but I was so disinterested in them that I can’t be bothered to check. They stomped around for a while with sound effects and sang about three songs. One had a pink Mohawk. It makes me sad to see old punk culture raped so by the current generation. If an old school punk had taken one look at this kid he would have turned him inside out and nailed his three-hundred-dollar tennis shoes to his liver.
I’m probably not listing the acts in order, but you’ll have to forgive me. I was more interested in watching the fact that the crowd (which was ninety percent little white girls, by the way) was drinking like fish. I saw a few people get carded, but not many, and people were ordering multiple drinks to bring back to their underage friends. It was ridiculous.
They should have called it SummerSmashed.
The next act – I think – was JLS. This was a cute little English boy band/R&B act that kept me mildly interested for a few minutes.
Between acts, we were shown both commercials and videos. I didn’t mind the videos, but fuck if I am going to enjoy watching commercials after paying exorbitant Ticketmaster prices. That was bullshit.
The New Boyz were a rap act that had very low pants. One of these guys had his pants belted directly under his ass and had to keep holding them up so that they wouldn’t fall, which was comical. He was running and dancing and holding his pants as if he had a load in there.
This is what America’s youth finds attractive, people.
Perez Hilton came out to introduce his pet act, Travis Garland, and told a long, rambling. awkward story about Lady Gaga that made him seem, well, awkward. I have nothing but love for Perez, but he was not in top form at the B-Bash.
Also? Nobody seemed to give a shit about poor Travis Garland. The crowd was not wowed.
One act I enjoyed was Iyaz. He was a rapper, so I did surprise myself a little there, but he was good, and then he was joined by a cute Asian girl named Charice, and they did a couple duets, and they had good rapport and were pretty talented.
More DJs, more spinning, more commercials.
At some point, a very, very high individual started to run through our row of seats, high-fiving people and grabbing people’s hands and ruffling people’s heads. I would surmise he was on ecstasy, because he had that dazed sort of smiley look about him. At one point, he tried to high-five Norton; and Norton, who was not quite having the time of his life, was not having any of it. So, he grabbed my hand. I played along, and then he moved a row down, where there was a concrete ledge that dropped down about six feet. High Guy almost fell off of that ledge about ten times, and people started nodding for security. We saw him being dragged out of the show about ten minutes later.
Druggies are fun.
Cascada was up next – I think – and I have to say I probably enjoyed her performance the most. She was another Brit performer who sang and danced to a number of songs I do not know, have never heard of, and probably will never hear again, but the J-Man knew them all, was singing them at top volume, and was going insane. So, Cascada. Not bad.
More DJ spinning, more commercials, more digging into my wallet for food, Gatorades, Dippin’ Dots. With the amount of money I spent on this concert, I could have taken a nice trip somewhere.
Jason Derullo was talented and also very fun to watch, because A) he could sing, and B) he took his shirt off.
By this point in the evening (about five and a half hours in), everyone was drunk. EVERYONE. All the little white girls were going white girl crazy from their vodka lemonades, plus whatever they’d already ingested in the parking lot. It was a crazy scene, and I was starting to get a little nervous for the kids.
The kid from down the street was totally overwhelmed, I could tell. He sat, bug-eyed, taking it all in, just staring.
The J-Man was rolling with it, dancing, laughing, and singing his fool ass off.
The drunk girls were beginning to gather into groups and hump each other wildly. Norton left for the safety of the vehicle.
Finally, it was time for the main act – Ludacris.
Ludacris hit the stage, and people lost their damn minds. I am not kidding. The arena was a sea of waving hands and screeching white girls.
Ludacris began to yell “LUDA!” and the white girls began to screech “CRIS!” This went on for about, oh, twenty minutes. After that, Ludacris began to rap.
I am sure Ludacris is a very good rapper, but I did not know any of the songs and could not tear my eyes away from the drunkenness. All around me, everyone was dancing and stumbling and humping (even the beer vendor), and all I could think was, “Shit, I have GOT to get these kids out of here.”
“Two more songs,” I said. “That’s it.”
The kids moaned a little bit, but I think they didn’t protest a lot because they also were starting to see the gravity of the situation. No one wants to be stomped upon by some drunken high-schooler’s wedge.
So, we left, and the kids claimed to have had an absolute blast, but I think the B96 Summerbash is definitely meant for an older crowd, preferably an over-21 crowd, but I don’t think anyone there got the memo.
I suppose the burning question is whether I will give up my beloved indie music and punk rock and start cranking B96 full-time.
Don’t bet on it.
Happy Monday.
February 21st, 2008 | Author: trancejen
The Lutherans are generally a mild-mannered, pleasant bunch. They sing quietly and worship in a subservient manner, fitting the somewhat stern, “Catholic Lite” tenets of the church.
They drive their beige SUVs, name their children names like Brittany and Montana, and wear spiffy hundred-dollar running suits when joining the long queue of cars picking up the kids at the end of the school day.
The women smile bright “Hi-how-are-ya-good-to-see-ya” smiles in church; the men shake hands. These are friendly people.
I have talked about all of this before, all of this apple-pie goodness, this Midwestern wholesomeness, this off-white-walls sort of Lutheran-ness.
As much as I tease, this is why I pay a hefty chunk of change of tuition for my kid to go to a Lutheran school. I want the J-Man to grow up in a polite, sterile, environment where people actually say “please” and “thank you”. I want the rules to be so stringent and the application process to be so ridiculous that there is no need for a metal detector in the hallway. I want to know that my kid is safe and that the teachers actually really care about the children. I like the fact that good values and morals are being taught.
It’s a little… beige, but I can compensate for that at home.
The reports I have been getting lately, however, are starting to disturb me. The kids in the fourth grade seem to be taking a stand against all of this Lutheranism and are developing the mouths of little truckers.
The word “fag” is being tossed around with aplomb. Now the J-Man knows that he will get horse-whipped should the word “fag” ever exit his lips, so he came home somewhat cowed, telling me what was being said in hushed tones. So-and-so called so-and-so the “f” word!
Naturally I assumed he meant something quite different.
We eventually got it straightened out, but I was irked. Was this not why I was paying all this tuition – to have my child protected from the shitty language that ran rampant in public schools??
Another incident soon followed. The J-Man’s friend Fargo was talking to him in class, and a little girl, Foo-Foo, called him a fag. The kid turned around and said, “Whatever. You’re a broke-ass bitch.”
She then slapped him right across the face.
The teacher witnessed this entire incident and was already running toward them with detention slips by the time it ended.
A broke-ass bitch? What are these kids, gangsters?
A broke-ass bitch. And fag. That’s really something the kids need to be learning in the fourth grade. Homophobia! Great. Good.
Once again I was outraged that my tuition dollars were going to an institution that fed the minds of such godless little heathens. What the hell? I mean, why not toss the J-Man to the public school wolves?
I was certainly no angel in parochial school (although I had not yet become a threat to the public safety at that tender age), but there was a certain fear we had as Lutheran children that I just don’t feel the current crop possesses.
We weren’t afraid of the teachers per se, because you must remember they were nice old Lutherans; but we were deeply afraid of Getting In Trouble. I went to parochial school from kindergarten until the eighth grade and I can honestly tell you I only used a curse word one time up until I graduated.
That one time was when I was ten and I had a vicious migraine, and, freaking out, I told my mother to take me to the damned doctor. I thought she was going to have a serious heart attack right there on the green shag carpeting, and after I dropped the bomb I cried like a baby.
I obviously swear like a fucking truck driver today, but back then I was deeply afraid that the fiery pits of hell would open up and swallow me whole if I uttered so much as a “damn”.
Running in the halls was prohibited, and if you ran or even walked too fast, you had to go back and walk the entire hallway. If you were late for class due to this walking, you got a detention.
Nobody ran.
Hair had to be kept short and neat for boys, reasonably neat and unadorned for girls. We kept the shit neat.
There just was a certain fear of wrongdoing that I find the J-Man’s posse lacks. It’s not just the fear, either, it’s the honest desire to want to do well. These kids don’t want to participate in the science fair, they don’t want to win the reading contest, they don’t want to do a real bang-up job on their book reports. They just want to get it done in a slop-shit sort of way and turn it in. My own kid gets excellent grades, but I really don’t think he gives much of a shit. He just happens to be smart.
Maybe I was plunked into a class of overachieving weirdos and I most certainly was one myself, but I don’t get these children. They seem sluggish and reluctant to enjoy their schoolwork.
Plus, the fighting and the swearing and the attitudes. Good Lord.
I’m sure I sound like an old woman who walked uphill both ways to school in the snow, but damn, it’s frightening.
Maybe I’m being thoroughly unrealistic in wanting a gaggle of angelic, clean-mouthed kids in today’s world. I just am surprised by the fact that the bland, beige Lutherans have spawned such a group of spitfires.
If anything, I’d think it would be my kid doing all the hell-raising.
Happy Thursday.
January 30th, 2008 | Author: trancejen
I have a seriously fucked up back due to some disc degeneration, and I long for massages. However, my budget expressly forbids massages of any kind except the sort that drunken old men offer on the street, and let me tell you, they miss a lot of spots. Plus I once found a fingernail in my bra strap.
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I think I just grossed myself out.
Anyway, my father, who can be the world’s most insensitive, damn-your-ass-is-big jackass but the world’s greatest, most spot-on, generous gift-giver, gave me one of those heated shiatsu massage chair cushions for Christmas. He also gave me money, but I find myself actually appreciating the cushion even more.
I have been using it often, and the moans of pleasure that escape my lips when I am sitting on the thing can only be described as orgasmic. In fact, I am loathe to sit on it when the J-Man is awake because I feel vaguely sick and wrong, like some parento-pedophile that has kinky sex in front of the children.
Yesterday, however, was a bad back day, and no dirty, R-rated groans were going to stop me from plopping down upon my little shiatsu friend. I positioned it on the couch, leaned back, tuned in, turned on, and smiled, trying to keep from making inappropriate sounds, when the J-Man looked at my blissed-out face and said, “Can I go next?”
Nobody movie It had never occured to me, because children’s spines are made of linguine, but I thought, why the hell not?
“OK, we stop if it hurts. If it is hurting you in any way, tell me. The little balls in that thing are sort of strong. TELL ME IF IT HURTS YOU.”
Blackwoods dvd I wasn’t about to be taking my nine-year-old to a fucking chiropractor.
“OK. Turn it on.”
“Do you want heat?”
“No.” He glanced at me nervously. “No heat.”
“OK. Here we go. This is a rolling massage. I think the shiatsu is too strong.”
I pushed the power button and his brown eyes widened in surprise. “Wow! That feels goooood!”
“Doesn’t it?!”
“Oh my God!”
“I KNOW!! Don’t say that at school.”
“Sorry. This is great!”
“Yeah! Want to try the shiatsu?”
“Yeah!!”
*presses button*
“Oh, WOW!”
“I KNOW!”
“This is the coolest thing EVER!”
“I KNOW!”
“Do the heat, do the heat!”
*presses button*
“WOW! Awesome! I’m so doing this every day!”
“Ha, ha!! You’ll have to drag me away first!!”
“Do it again, it shut off.”
“‘kay. I really hope this is isn’t damaging your growing back.”
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“Probably not.”
“This is seriously cool.”
“I know.”
I think I’ve spawned a luxury-phile. He’s already onto my mother’s foot cream. By the time he’s twelve he’ll be making spa appiontments, booking Swedish massages and mani-pedis.
I don’t know whether to be nervous about this or impressed.
Happy Wednesday.
By the way, I have a new Feedburner feed thing, and if I can figure out how to put it up so that people can actually use it, I will do so tonight.
January 16th, 2008 | Author: trancejen
Just wanted to show off the new hair. I posed and e’rrything.
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Lipstick on my teeth is a great look, to be sure.
Donkey Xote download And here is the J-Man and his new kitty. Unfortunately only one picture turned out in which you can even see the kitty since the kitty is black, and it’s pretty damned hard to see it in this one:
Next time I’ll have him wear a white shirt.
Isn’t the J-Man starting to look disturbingly old? I’m going to start feeding him crack and cigars.
Undead ipod Happy Wednesday.
January 2nd, 2008 | Author: trancejen
Material Girls download We can’t take our new kitten home from the Humane Society until next Friday because the little bugger has pink eye and has to be on medication.
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Therefore my wonderful child is restless and ready to mope the house down.
Do you know what I would like to do with children who act bored post-Christmas during their Christmas vacations, these sad-eyed, droopy-faced children who wander through the house aimlessly and watch mindless television while their sparkling piles of Christmas booty sit untouched?
I would like to take all the brand-new toys, games, video games, stuffed animals, dolls, playsets, action figures, clothes, and ACTUAL FURNITURE that these children receive and put it on a big plane and send it to Darfur or some other Godforsaken country where children don’t have jack shit and make the spoiled little so and sos distribute the stuff, along with good food, so as to learn what NOT being bored is really like.
That’s what I would like to do with Mr. I’m Bored.
Can you tell I’m ready for Christmas vacation to be over?
I thought so.
I’m crabby today. That damned kitten and its damned pink eye and my damned migraine.
At least I’m teaching the valuable but annoying lesson of having to wait for things you want – which is, of course, a lesson that I have never properly mastered.
I want the kitty, too. Poor little thing.
As for the boredom, I have invited another child over, so I now have *two* bored children who are chomping at the bit to use this computer. I think I’m going to send them both out into the snow to hunt for Star Wars light sabers, which you may or may not know are even tinier than the dreaded Barbie shoe.
That’ll learn ‘em.
Happy Wednesday.
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December 30th, 2007 | Author: trancejen
We had a fantastic Christmas. I was spoiled terribly with books and movies and candles and clothes and some gift cards and money and a Shiatsu massage cushion (from my dad, right on dad!). I was actually very overwhelmed.
The J-man got some Lego sets from Santa and some video games, games and toys, and a kitten from mom whose name is Skittles and is still awaiting the adoption paper process from the local Humane Society. We should be able to pick her up on Wednesday. She is black and very fluffy and absolutely adorable. Pictures will be forthcoming.
To give him the present, I boxed up a new cat carrier with a Webkinz kitten and a box of kitten food in it and a note reading “Your presence is requested December 29, 2007 (the day we’d be home from Bullshit’s parents) at the local Humane Society to pick out your new kitten. We look forward to meeting you.”
He flipped. It was great.
That night he whispered as I put him to bed, “This was the best Christmas ever.”
I suppose that alone made it a pretty damned memorable Christmas for me, too.
The next day, we trucked off to Bullshit’s parents, who live in Bloomington/Normal. After a two-hour drive, Bullshit, who was feeling pretty punk after completing four hours of driving since he was already in B/N and was already sick, went to see a doctor.
The doctor actually called him a trainwreck. He had ear infections in both ears and infections in all four lobes of his lungs. He was sent back with steroids, a strong antibiotic, an inhaler, and a steroid inhaler.
Thankfully he was home and could rest, and thankfully Bullshit’s parents are excellent people that I don’t mind being left on my own with. The J-Man and I sat and ate (and ate, and ate) and chatted with them while Bullshit was sick or napping or hacking his poor malfunctioning lungs up, and they were great.
We opened presents that night, and they actually bought me one of those fricking huge stereo things that houses an iPod. I couldn’t believe it. I was actually at a loss for words and just kept repeating “thank you” like a robotic idiot. It was such a generous gesture that I still honestly don’t believe it. They were also incredibly generous with the J-Man, who was and is thrilled.
Even though I sometimes think I must be the worst possible girlfriend in the world from a parent’s point of view, given the fact that I’m a single parent and have enough health problems to fill any good-sized warehouse; Bullshit’s parents have done nothing but welcome me into their family with open arms and be extremely fucking cool and kind and giving and loving and totally understanding, and it just makes me a little fucking teary just sitting here typing about it.
Ahem.
Anyway, I couldn’t ask for him to have better parents. Really. Ever.
I spent my birthday there, and Bullshit’s mom baked me a great German chocolate cake dripping with coconut frosting, decorated the house, and bought me even more presents, including a dream dictionary and a gift certificate to my favorite craft store.
It was a nice little mini-vacation, and Bullshit started to get better from his myriad medicine (thank God), so I think he will be in good enough shape for New Year’s.
We have plans with one of my oldest and dearest friends to go to her house and chill and drink and play board games and karaoke with her and her husband and two other couples, which should be a very good time indeed. I’m looking forward to it.
I just want to thank everyone who sent Christmas wishes, birthday wishes, and e-cards. It’s been a very, very nice holiday season. Thank you so much for being part of it. Much love, and have a happy and safe new year.
October 22nd, 2007 | Author: trancejen
Yesterday our church arranged a hayride and bonfire out at a farm out in Upper Butt Crack, Indiana; so off to Upper Butt Crack, Indiana we drove with my sister and her kids following.
(I unfortunately don’t have any photos of this event because my camera battery crapped out – I thought I’d recharged it, but I hadn’t. Poop.)
We were the first ones to arrive, so after I walked the kids through a voluminous corn maze (hoping to God I didn’t run into any tow-headed children in suits), I sat down and started describing the church population to my sister, who is Catholic and unfamiliar with the J-Man’s school and our church, which we must attend in order to get the fat tuition discount to go to heaven.
I started in on how the Lutherans in our congregation are all the same: They all drive expensive beige SUVs, they all wear fairly nice designer clothes, the women all have nail tips, streaked blond hair, big rocks on their fingers, and expensive running suits; and they’re all big on talking about how their kids are on schedules, Seven Signs of the Apocalypse rip blah blah boring, blah blah my husband this, blah blah my yoga class that,
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blah blah Sierra has ballet and then Latin and then underwater basket weaving, narr.
Now you must understand that this comes from a place of moderate jealously, because I too would like to be banging around to yoga classes and wearing a large rock (OK, pawning a large rock) and having a big swimming pool and sending my kid to expensive lessons and feeling secure that my kid’s tuition was not going to eat up half of my monthly income. So a little jealous? Maybe. But this doesn’t necessarily mean that the Lutherans are snotty or shallow, and I was sort of tarring them with that brush.
Beacause I am a bitch. A bitch that is jealous.
And maybe also a bitch who makes fun of people who name their kids things like Sierra or Montana.
As a brief aside, someone in my mom’s office just named their kid Agent. Agent. The world is a strange and frightening place, people.
Anyway, I was sort of laying it on about the Lutherans in a not-so-nice manner, and the Lutherans began to arrive (all in beige SUVs, as predicted, much to my sister’s delight). Since I have been a bad Lutheran and have been sleeping in many a Sunday I expected a terse “hello” or maybe a nod or two, but the damn Lutherans were just about as nice and friendly as could be, and I felt horribly guilty for maligning them to my sister. One lady was really cool, and we spent some time talking about the evils of the internet (heh), and how we didn’t want our kids touching it. (So to speak.)
It’s true. As far as my kid is concerned, I hate the internet and would prefer he never use the computer. I let him use the Webkinz program, I let him play Star Wars games, he goes to Nickelodeon, and I let him look up Star Wars figures on eBay, and that’s it. If he ever even mentions MySpace I will fucking laugh.
I have seen too much smut and shit and evil on the world wide web to let him near it until he’s at least a teenager. This is why I prefer him to have friends here rather than allow him to wander the neighborhood and go to other kids’ homes. God only fucking knows what other parents are allowing – mature video games, swinging from the chandeliers, blow job orgies, and MySpace.
My imagination is too good. That’s what makes me a strict asshole parent.
Anyways, back to the Lutherans. I suppose I have always felt that I had absolutely nothing in common with them and that I couldn’t possibly relate to any of them because I’m not married, I’m on disability, and I don’t have a lot of money. However, we’re all primarily there for our kids, so I suppose I need to lose my Eat The Rich attitude, sack up, and try making some friends at the church.
Speaking of friends, my old roommate and another old friend called out of the blue Saturday night. We all went to high school together and also spent a lot of time together in our twenties partying it up and just hanging out and having some really good times. We planned to get together soon, and I’m really glad. I’ve felt really disconnected from my friends lately, and it will be good to see some old friends.
This Thursday Bullshit and I are taking the J-Man to the Star Wars exhibit at the museum of Science and Industry in order to further fuel his obsession. We think that by the end of the visit he will be a full-fledged Star Wars maniac with light sabers growing out of his eyeballs.
Happy Monday.
October 13th, 2007 | Author: trancejen
I did bleach my hair and it actually turned out pretty good. It’s a little gold, but another bleaching with some toner in a couple weeks when my hair has had a little time to recover will cure that.
The J-Man has a two-page report on the Gret Stet of Illinois due on Monday complete with shoebox diorama, so we are having some true diorama drama going on in the Trance household.
I know I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Fuck shoebox dioramas. Give me a poster, thirty-five thousand cupcakes, a weekend Boyscout trip, a science project, or any other academia-based undertaking and I am glad to help, but the shoebox diorama eludes me every time.
I am creative and I don’t know why the shoebox medium in particular gives me such a hard time, but I hate these fuckers. HATE. There is too little space and the second I look at the box and the confused child I start to sweat. Agh. Damned teachers and their damned dioramas.
Happy Saturday.
October 9th, 2007 | Author: trancejen
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Kids have no vomit warning. They lack that adult five-second time lapse that we luckily normally possess when it comes time to puke, except in instances of extreme drunkenness or severe flu.
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My poor kid has currently barfed all over: the school, his legs, his socks, his Crocs (no big loss there, as far as I’m concerned), my Persian rug, my leather chair, his bed, his carpet, and the couch. The toilet remains untouched.
I’m thinking it may be time to get some tarps.
Have a happier Tuesday than I’m having. Please.
