|"This isn't a headband. My hair's so dirty, it grows around itself."|
Did you know you can break a garbage disposal three times in a week?
Well, you can.
And if my super patient husband fixes it again tonight, I'll let you know if you can break it four times in a week. Also, I'm mentioning it now so if he murders me, all you guys can chime in that you last heard my very unique voice on July 21st, before my not-so-mysterious disappearance.
So, at this point, I'm not putting any more food down there. Which is fine by me because my hand gets super gross if I have to reach down and clean out that death trap. And at the rate I get to shower...
What's the actual rate I get to shower?
In case you don't have a thorough knowledge of calculus, let me tell you a story instead.
Once upon a time, there was a woman who was filthy beyond a degree that's even suitable to go drop a movie off at Redbox.
"Alas," she cried. "I cannot shower during the day, for my children feel the overwhelming and annoying urge to crawl in the tub or bring the dog in so he can lick the shampoo bottles. The baby crawls up and tries to get into the knives. And if I take the time to condition, all three kids escape and try to run down the street. I shall forever look like the Unibomber."
The woman tried to think of a way she could convince the toddler to learn to knit or be constructive while she showered, but the baby refused and laughed at her most insultingly.
"Why do you laugh at me so?"
"Poop!" Shouted the baby.
And so it went.
One night, after everyone had fallen asleep and the woman had inexplicably watched You've Got Mail for the three-hundredth time in her life, she declared to the darkness, "Why did everyone want Meg Ryan's haircut? Also, I should shower."
Groggily, the woman climbed the stairs, turned on the hot water, and prayed the spiders would stay hidden until she could flail back out in search of her velcro towel wrap.
At midnight, after shampooing, conditioning, shaving, and winning old arguments in her head, the woman padded down the hall to her room, decided pajamas were a waste of time, and fell into bed. From there, the wine took over and she was soon fast asleep.
But, it was not to be.
For, at 3am, the woman woke up to her husband asking something directly in her ear.
"Have you ever cheated on me?"
"I just had a really bad dream that you cheated on me. It was depressing."
"What? No. No I have not."
"Wait. Why aren't you wearing pajamas?" Asked the husband who thought the wife must've had an affair right next to him, between the hours of midnight to 3am.
"I took a shower."
"I know. It's hard to believe."
"I guess that makes sense."
"I'm going back to sleep." said the woman.
And so the couple went back to sleep and the husband kept the woman in a football hold, thinking she'd spend the rest of the night running the streets.
So, for those of you who were keeping track, I shower about as often as I have an affair, which is never.
My choices have been narrowed to "Be dirty because I can't shower" or "Be clean and be accused of being dirty."
Either or, the dish disposal is still broken, and I'm not sticking my hand in there. Someone and his false accusations have a date with the Allen wrench.
But at least I showered. I think.
Until Next Time, Readers!