Every house has a certain, dangerous location that sucks in random items like a domestic black hole. That spot in the dollhouse is the leather sectional in the living room. I’m the first person to sheepishly admit that my tidying practices are to housekeeping what the blooper reel on American Idol is to music. Martha Stewart can’t ever come for a visit, because the state of my house most days would be enough to cause heart failure and end the uppity old broad on the spot.
Today, my sweetie and I lifted the sectional out into the living room, swept and then vacuumed its normal footprint, and polished up the leather with some nifty leather conditioner wipes that smelled rather like the “orange drink” at McDonald’s tastes. I’d love to tell you this burst of industry was brought on a sudden jolt toward domesticity. I wish I could grin at my laptop and convince you I’m becoming a better housekeeper in preparation for turning thirty and edging toward middle age. I write honestly here at Blue Speckled Pup, so I’ll save you the lies.
We moved the stupid couch (which gets heavier every damn time we have to do it) in an effort to find a pair of earrings. I haven’t been able to find my little diamond hoops for a few weeks, which isn’t unusual because they tend to venture out on their own every now and again. They are the only piece of jewelry I still wear from a past relationship, and I wear them because they’re pretty and practical rather than out of sentiment. For some reason, I lose them constantly. It may be symbolic, actually, but it’s also really frustrating to have to search the house for them every couple of months. Interestingly, I never lose other pieces of jewelry. In general, I know where all my stuff is, even if the official location is a random pile somewhere in my house.
I was planning to wear my little hoops to Kuwait because they lock and I can sleep comfortably in them, and taking one pair of earrings appropriate for any occasion makes more sense than packing a bunch of jewelry. I also really wanted to find them today because I was worried they had fallen down the bathroom drain or made a suicide pact with one another to release their clasps and drift to the bottom of the swimming pool, simultaneously and unexpectedly. I also had a terrible thought that they had been snatched into a speckled mouth and were glittering in a turd somewhere in my back yard.
Anyway, we moved the couch. The thing is a glutton. Among the broad range of crap living in its shadow, we found three unmatched socks, one empty pepsi can and two empty diet pepsi cans, one of those plastic thingers for peeling oranges, an empty package of turkey jerky, three pens, one pencil, and more paperclips that I can count. I am a teacher, after all. There was also a pair of dangly earrings, eighteen hair pins, a dog toy shaped like a snake, and four rawhides in various states of deconstruction. Everything was nestled in dog and cat hair, because that’s how we roll. There was no actual money, but I did find fifteen cents to spend at my local Canadian Tire.
I also found my earrings.
Why don’t they make couches that go right to the floor? I am (clearly) the kind of person who can’t be trusted with furniture that collects random objects.
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