Why Bleach ALWAYS Requires Supervision

Yes, it's been a while. Yes, I really have been busy. My son graduated high school! We had his party  here last week. My family was in town. Did you really think I'd have time to blog with all this crazy ass shit going on over here? 

I do have a fantastic story to share with you. This is why God gave my wacked out family to me. Not as punishment (though it often feels that way). No, God knew I would find sooooo much inspiration in virtually each and every one of our encounters that it would be worth the headache to find the humor. And share it with the world, of course. 

During the hectic moments of cleaning, preparing food, arranging furniture, shopping, etc., I happened to come in the kitchen and saw a huge bottle of Clorox on my counter. I personally hate bleach. It probably stems from the early days of our marriage when I actually cared enough about all the animals to worry each time we left the house if any toilet seats were accidentally still up and would a cat possibly drown because of it? All these years later, I'm more certain that they won't, though I admit I'm also a bit more certain that I wouldn't care quite as much. But it's caustic, it smells to high heaven, and any cleaning benefit is pretty much nixed out by all the damage it can do with one little spill, hence the reason EVERY single one of my bath mats have white stains on them because my husband is generous, but not careful, with bleach. In my mind, his OCD freak ass falls into a shark-like bleaching frenzy, literally throwing it floor to ceiling and wall to wall, probably with a crazed maniacal laugh. He would probably wear it as cologne if I'd let him. He won't wear REAL cologne, but he would wear bleach. This I promise is true. 

So. I walk in and see, among every other thing I own in my kitchen on the counters, a big jug of Clorox. I asked my mom, "What is that bleach doing on the counter?" She says, "Oh, I wanted to ask you about something." She walks over to the sink and pulls out a piece of white plastic that I INSTANTLY recognize. She says, "I found this and wanted to know if I could use it." I said, "What the HELL is that doing in my kitchen sink?!?!?!?!?!?" She said, "Why, what is it?" I said, "It's the bottom to my TOILET PLUNGER! Why the hell is it in the kitchen and not in the laundry room sink????" She said, "I found it upstairs and thought it was a bowl and I was going to clean it out to put the candy in it." 

Now, if anyone who actually attended my son's graduation party is reading this and if you also coincidentally happened to eat candy at this same party, I assure you, PROMISE YOU, no candy or any food of any kind was ever placed in the ass cap bowl. Scout's honor, cross my heart, and all that mojo. But I thought I'd share it so you could imagine, just for a brief horrifying moment, how close you came to eating out of the ass bowl. Is that fun or what?