When I got up this morning, I walked into the kitchen and stepped in a puddle in front of the kitchen sink.
(This is rarely a good way to start the day.)
In our case, though, it turned out to be less annoying and more extremely perplexing—investigation revealed the puddle to be some sort of cleaning fluid (I suspect the sort of “general cleaner” I sometimes buy by the jug), but we cannot figure out the source. I mean, in front of the sink, there, I expected either some sort of catastrophic plumbing issue or a bottle in the under-sink cabinet gone capsized. And… nothing. We can find nothing. I can’t even find a bottle that matches the smell, anywhere. Nor was there a trail from under the sink, indicating a spill from within. It was simply a self-contained puddle of cleaner.
Otto and I are considering the ramifications of someone breaking into the house and pouring a few capfulls of cleaner on the floor in front of the sink. What does it MEAN? Was it a murder plot—intended to slip one of us up, cause a broken neck as we skidded butt-first, crashing to the floor? Was it a not-so-subtle sign that the floor needs mopping? (The floor does indeed need mopping. I have children; the floor ALWAYS needs mopping.) Did someone in the family sleep-clean?
It’s very curious.
I was ready to indict a “helpful” child, but as I scouted around at 8:30 I discovered Chickadee was still sleeping (she’s in training for the teen years) and Monkey was still holed up in his room with several dozen Animorphs books.
So, um, if you spilled some all-purpose cleaner in front of my sink recently, please speak up. It’s sort of weirding me out.
Chickadee has decided on her Halloween costume, and this one delights me no end. She has this shirt and plans to outfit herself according, half-angel, half-devil. It is perfect for her. (Tune in soon for my adventures in fashioning half a halo, one wing, half a tail, and a single horn.)
Monkey, though, is stumped. I have MANY MANY FINE IDEAS for him, but I am being rejected at every turn. Frankly, I’m starting to lose my patience. I mean, the fact that my 8-year-old bubble of cheerful love doesn’t see the ENDLESS HUMOR in my suggestion that he go as a sad emo kid is quite trying. I was all set to paint his nails black, smear on the black eyeliner, and everything. Likewise, our multiple suggestions of female get-ups (“You have GREAT HAIR, Monkey,” Chickadee assured him, “Most cheerleaders WISH they had hair like yours! I’ll braid it for you!”) are being turned down right and left. He does not want to be a girl of any kind, no matter how hilarious.
His only idea so far is that he’d like to be a spy. When quizzed on how spies look, I was given the wow-you-are-too-stupid-to-live look and a large sigh. “They dress like EVERYONE ELSE, Mom, otherwise you’d know they were SPIES!” Oh. Right. After prolonged debate it was allowed as how a spy MIGHT wear a trenchcoat.
Yeah. Um. Have you seen a trenchcoat in a boys’ size 7? Like, ever? Me neither.
So. We are open to rad costume ideas for a smallish boy, and/or ideas on how to procure a tiny trenchcoat for not very many dollars. I’m sure you have nothing else needing your attention right now, so feel free to get right on that.
(Unless you’re the one who spilled the cleaner in the kitchen. Because if that was you, I’d really rather you just come back over here and clean the rest of the floor, instead.)