When I get around to writing up my Against the Dying of the Light series (a woman's book/fantasy), I hope I remember tonight.
It started:
"Mom. Someone threw up in the bathroom. On the guns."
Now, maybe you don't keep a major collection of massive nerf rifles in your bathroom…but if you do, you know…this is not the place you would like your sons to throw up. No. It would have been better had the vometeur missed the guns entirely hitting, oh, I don't know, maybe…the toilet.
But no.
So, I begin the inquisition. "Was it you?" "No." "Was it Orville?" "No."
Well, it wasn't Ping-Ping. She wouldn't have gone into the boys bathroom if the house was on fire, and it was the only place left that had not joined forces with the inferno. (Which is probably good, because there is no window in the boys' bathroom. Which is also sad…because throwing the entire collection of vomit-splattered nerf weaponry out the window was not a option.) She certainly did not go in there to stealth vomit.
Well, it wasn't John either.
That left the non-speaking member of the family. Who was in the bath. Can't really ask him for help.
Sigh.
So…after whiling away another ten minutes, while I screwed my courage to some sticky spot (that's what they usually say, right?) I finally rolled up my non-existent sleeves and strode into the bathroom.
It was't as bad as I had feared. Proving the existence of babelfish, I suppose.
Me, staring at the shine plastic mess: "We've got to find somewhere else to store these guns."
Juss, outraged, "MOM! There is NOWHERE ELSE."
What can I say. When the boy's right, he's right.
Next, I must decide how to clean up. I consider the shower…but the drain doesn't work very well. That will just lead to a worse cleaning nightmare. I pause to wash the toilet and screw the seat back on. When was the last time I even walked into this room? Had I reminded Orville to clean it this month? This year? Hmm….
If I use the toilet, I will end up with bits of unmentionable stuff on either side of it, which will be a worse state than we have now.
And the sink drains v e r y s l o w l y. So that was right out.
No, I decide, there is only one thing I can possibly do. I must, somehow, get the vomit-splattered weapons out to the front lawn where I can wash them with the hose.
There is no other option.
(You can see how the window would have helped.)
So…I get a pink towel. I pile long, sleek, gleaming…except for where they are splattered with matter that should not be on the outside of a boy…guns onto the towel. I think there were six or seven of them. I put the soiled, red, shag rug on top, and I begin the process of negotiating my way down the stairs.
A sleek yellow and green rifle is sliding out of the towel-sling. Curse it's plasticy nerfness!
I make it to the stairs. The Princess is on the stairs. I shout at her to move out of the way. She doesn't. The rifle slides more. I think of asking her to help me. I think of how utterly fastidious she is. It is not worth facing the Princessly disdain. I struggle on.
Somehow, we manage to pass each other on the stairs without causing a nerf-relate explosion.
But now, I'm losing the towel. The guns are sliding. Gross stuff is coming dangerously close to my knee.
I think of asking John for help, but he is happily writing on his blog and reading reviews of his latest books. It seems too cruel to disturb him.
I struggle onward.
I lose the rifle somewhere in the front hall.
But I make it to the door. I throw a pile of vomit-sodden guns down on to the dark lawn. I can kind of see them. There is a little light from the front door. I spray them with the hose…feeling slightly sorry for the one that used to make electronic noises. Bet it won't do that anymore! Not after being sprayed by the hose's special super-soaker attachment.
Electronics are like that.
I get a weird look from a jogger. He's jogging at 9pm in the dark, but he can spare a weird look for the lady hosing down a vomitous nerf arsenal.
Well…he's got a point.
It is too dark to see whether this plan worked. I abandon the guns. I will check on them in the morning. I pick up the rug and towel. After hosing off the rug, just a bit, I go downstairs and put it in the wash. With some of the boys' clothing. Boys clothes and vomit-covered red, shag rug.
In retrospect, I think I may regret having done that in the morning…
As I am doing this, I hear a noise. Like the Woosh, Woosh part of the TARDIS sound, without the following Swish, Swish part. I look around. It's coming from the dryer.
I have never heard that noise from my dryer before.
The upstairs bathroom still needs cleaning. There's still a pattern of vomit on the floor showing where the guns used to be. I turn to go.
Wiwoosh. Wiwoosh.
Puzzled now, I investigate the dryer. Nothing weird there. I turn it on again.
Wiwoosh. Wiwoosh.
Huh.
I try one more time. I take everything out of the dryer. Wet clothing. On the good side, at least they are not covered with vomit.
Nothing.
I peer into the dryer. In the far back, I see a tiny shadow. I reach in…
…and pull out an oblong rock Juss found on the Boy Scout campout…turned out it was a magnet.
A very hot magnet that was traveling around the dryer getting hotter and making half TARDIS noises.
Hot rock in hand, I walk upstairs thinking that, while it was true there was still a bathroom to clean, I am cheered by the thought of all the weird, accidental futures I avoided by stopping the dryer from completing its transformation into a time and relative dimensions in space traveling device.
Overall, I'll have to consider this day a win.
