'...And Dirty Enough to be Happy'

I'm usually quite stiff when it comes to keeping the house clean. I sometimes have the tendency to take obsessiveness to ridiculous levels. I remember as a teen, sharing a bathroom with my two sisters. They hated having to share the bathroom with obsessive me. Everytime they would come out of the bathroom, I would bombard them with a gazillion ridiculous queries such as, 'Did you straighten the towel'? 'Did you leave any water marks on the faucet'?, 'Were you careless enough to land any droplets of water on the floor'? Now that I think about it, I don't know how my sisters put up with me. Poor souls. I'm sure that they must have been happy to be rid of me when I went away to college. Over the years, I have managed to be a little less compulsive now that I have a family, job, and house to balance- along with a few extra curricular activities that I would not bore my dear readers with. But I remember when we first got married, how my husband used to hate my constant nagging about leaving the bathroom without wiping and then polishing the faucets after washing his hands, or cleaning out a toothpaste speck on the bathroom mirror. I think I've mellowed out a bit- afterall I do live with a sack of testosterone who loves to eat medium-rare steak (cringe), watch football, and leave dirty socks on the floor. Actually I must have changed more than just a little. Right now as I sit at my laptop after dinner, sipping on a cup of tea, I am surprised to realize exactly HOW much I have changed. My laptop is sitting next to a cheese grater that should be tucked away in a drawer. My cheese grater is leaning against a 24 case of Dasani water, that should be hidden away in the cabinet, and the 24 pack of Dasani water is sitting shamelessly against a toddler sippy cup that probably needs to find its way to the dishwasher...yes, I could go on on... I am reminded of a little plate that used to sit on our living room shelf when I was a kid. I can clearly remember what it said, "My house. Clean enough to be healthy, and dirty enough to be happy'. Right now, I am standing by this saying. I am standing by this saying all the way. Now please excuse me while I put a load of socks and underwear into the washer so we have something clean to change into tomorrow. Ahem.

Child Labor

So, I am terrified of static shock. I'm not kidding. I cannot find a way to put enough emphasis on how much hatred and fear I have for static shock. This was a new phenonmemon to me. When I first landed in Salt Lake City, I was an innocent young gal who would just march up to a metal door handle and pull it open, or go up to the icecream isle at the grocery store and grab the handle with a smooth swish of the hand, and yank it open. Then reality hit me. Utah weather is dry dry dry. SO dry, infact that if you do not moisturize right after taking a shower, you will itch yourself into oblivion. I can still remember the day when the harsh reality of the static shock hit me like a hundred slaps straight on the face. I was rushing down to the Union building on campus after class and as soon as I touched the door handle, I was zapped loud enough that the person walking next to me heard it and I think we both said, 'ouch'. That was the beginning of my woes. I've never looked at a metal door handle or a grocery store freezer handle the same way! It's absurd, but the decision to buy groceries from a certain store is highly contingent upon if that store has platic or metal handles in the milk isle!! So, that's where child labor comes into play. I have found the perfect use for my toddler son. He LOVES to open doors to freezers in dessert and milk isles at the grocery store. Al I have to do is hold him up to the handle. It works perfectly unless I happen to make a quick stop at the store while my son is napping at home. PLEASE SMITH'S and COSTCO!! Switch your metal door handles with plastic ones. I will love you forever!

The joys of being a mom

(This happened a few nights ago).
Time: must have been around 3:00am.
Me: (putting my arms around my sound asleep baby) 'Ashar, Baat suno' (translation: 'Hey Ashar, listen..')
Ashar: (I wasn't expecting he would say anything in his deep sleep) 'Kya'? (translation: 'What'?)
Me: 'I love you, Ash'.
Ashar: (Still asleep) 'I love you...mamma'.
!!!!!
I melted like butter melts in the microwave.
SIGH.

I am ready to paint the town RED.

I know that I've been neglecting my blog, and my blog probably hates me for being such a delinquent writer. I barely have any time to spare during the day. And when I do have the time, I suddenly get hit by the worst case of ‘writer’s block’. You would think that I would have plenty to write about. Yet, when it boils down to putting my fingers on the keyboard and sliding out a ritzy story about some very exciting (not) daily occurrence, I freeze. I don't think what I have to say would whip up much amusement for my readers.

I’ll give you an example of a full blown exhilarating episode extracted from the memoirs of my mundane routine: So my two year old threw up after eating too much chocolate. Yes the adrenaline rush was intense as I rushed to grab some paper towel and wipe away the mess and bathe my son, but I'm sure my readers would much rather read about other interesting things than indulge in a story of a soiled towel and bath times that involve rubber duckies and nursery rhymes....? Yes? Yes. Okay, so my suspicions have been confirmed.

I guess I could talk about my new red hair. I've always been the one to admire red highlights from afar, but never been bold enough to apply the gorgeous red streaks to my own hair until now... I finally decided to take the plunge and go red. I must admit, I did have a moment or two of doubt after the hair stylist was done blow drying my hair. Holy bloody Mary! And ‘Bloody Mary’ is right! My hair was… lets say… well, delicately put, it could have landed me a role as an extra in some movie that involved disturbed young adults with problems of drug overdoses and serious addictions to tattoo parlors and body piercings. I should have taken advantage of the situation, sported a few fake tattoos of torn bloody hearts on my arm and made my way outside some smoky and very questionable places in some very questionable areas of the town. I could have then asked (with a glazed expression) whoever I saw that if they knew the end of the world was near. I chose to go home, cook dinner and do laundry instead. I guess I had my chances. A few washes have left my hair a more socially acceptable shade of caramel. I am now ready to play the role of an evil spinster who hoards napkins and plastic forks from fast food restaurants.