Last week we cleared a mountain of crap off this garage shelf:

Today I cleared a mountain of wine off the garage floor:

And I cleaned out the garage refrigerator. And poured out an entire forgotten 12-pack of carbonationless Sprite that expired in 2016. And scrubbed the weird yellowish liquid that perpetually weeps down the garage walls and no the drywall isn’t peeing and we aren’t aliens or witches so don’t even think any of that or I’ll put a hex on you.

Also: It’s a delicate balance to scrub the grime off the garage-door opener without repeatedly opening and closing the garage door. It’s like Jenga. Or Jengarage. Or Garenga.

E-I-E-I-O

I’m washing and drying our poultry-themed knickknacks and the top drying towel in our kitchen drawer had a bovine motif and there’s an eagle on that antique green bottle and long story short don’t come over because it’s an absolute zoo here.

Also: There are few things in life more satisfying than rinsing the dust off of plastic flowers with a squirt of soap and the spray nozzle on the sink faucet.

Look what I got the Little Lady for Mother’s Day!

(And by “Little Lady” I mean Bitch Kitty because she tracks her damn Little Lady litter all over the basement family room and I’m too lazy to haul the vacuum cleaner down and back up the stairs so we now have a downstairs vacuum cleaner and I’m quite frankly all but giddy about it.)

My Fair Lady > Elf > Full Monty > 9 to 5 > Follies

Yesterday marked the end of an eight-month marathon of rehearsals and performances for five overlapping shows. It’s been fun and exciting and challenging and exhausting, but now I’m more than ready to put my dance bag in the back of my closet and delete all the screen grabs of still-need-to-memorize lyrics from my phone and contemplate the joys of maybe actually watching a television show. Or seeing a movie. Or having more than 30 minutes to work out after work. Or maybe finally Swiffering my long-neglected bedroom floor.

Speaking of unmentionable bedroom filth, what the hell do you suppose was the creative spark behind this disconcerting advertisement ... or how the agency convinced Joan Crawford that fanning her skirt around would make a compelling sales pitch for Lysol?

Subtext, Joan. Subtext.

I! HAVE! DUSTED! ALL! THE! WINES!

This shirt may be the best part of my day

When your damn hip injury seems to be creeping up into your lower back so you still can't run and it's a cool overcast day which is your favorite running weather but it's still your favorite weather for anything and your candidate won the Democratic gubernatorial primary last night and you found a totally cool stretch-cotton batik-print paisley polo this morning that you'd forgotten you had and your car is so totally clean and free of clutter that you can actually take a wide-view selfie to show off the back seat and even though you're a little bit bipolar-foggy today you're still functional enough to write a staggeringly long run-on sentence that technically has neither a subject nor a predicate but you're a writer and you can get away with such brazen linguistic abominationness plus you make up words with shameless abandon plus you end blog posts with needless prepositions at.

My car is now scrubbed and vacuumed and carpet de-spotted and so pristine-as-Wonder-Bread clean that none of you gross dirty people will ever be allowed even to look at it again

Speaking of gross dirty people, I was scrubbing so much grimy-looking black stuff off the knob of my stick shift (oh, stop giggling and grow up) that I’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that my hands are environmentally toxic petroleum-sludge factories ... only to discover to my horror that I’d actually been scrubbing the entire plastic finish off of my knob (I said STOP GIGGLING) and exposing the raw, dense foam underneath, which will now no doubt start crumbling in the sun and heat.

Well, shit.

But! Once I was finished rubbing the hell out of my knob (seriously ... do you people need a time out?) I drove to Iowa Running Company in NewBo to cash in a $10 coupon I had and get some new running shoes. I was fitted for Brooks Adrenaline running shoes 15 years ago because they offered the specific stabilization and gait correction I needed, and they’ve successfully taken me at 100 miles per pair through 7 marathons and 20+ half marathons since then. I’ve loved everything about them ... except their relentless, soul-crushing grayness. Most running shoes come out in exciting new colors each season, but Brooks Adrenalines are always drearily, predictably gray with blue accents, then drearily, predictably gray with another shade of blue accents then drearily, predictably gray with (ladies, hold your children) gray accents. NOT THIS YEAR, THOUGH! I am now living, breathing proof that the world does nothing but get more exciting, because this season’s Brooks Adrenalines are ... enticingly-not-gray black with enticingly sparkly gold accents:

And that’s a shift I can stick with.

It’s time for the annual Clean My Carmageddon!

No stray under-seat french fry will be safe.

This all sounds delightfully practical and wonderfully logical, except if it lasts a lifetime why does it have only a five-year guarantee?

I’m finally getting caught up on weeks of unfolded laundry and WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM, SOCK-EATING DRYER?

There IS no Step Two ...

My family buys nothing—NOTHING!—more important than a package of socks without first going through the Ten Steps of Painfully Indecisive Covetousness:

1. Oh, look! There’s the thing I’m actively looking to buy and it’s right here in front of me right now so my search is over and I’m going to buy it.
1a. or: Oh, look! There’s something I just stumbled on in a store that two seconds ago I didn’t know existed and now I desperately want it so I’m going to buy it.
2. But am I sure about this?
3. Maybe I can find a cheaper and/or better version of it somewhere else.
4. But first let me take 72 pictures of it on my phone so I can remind myself in perpetuity that I don’t have it every time I scroll through my photos.
5. It’s totally worth it to drive to five similar stores scattered across town and then to spend 30 minutes researching it online if I can save five dollars when I inevitably buy it.
6. It goes without saying that it’s also totally worth it to go back to visit it nine or fifteen times at the store where I first saw it, just to be sure I really want it or to see if it goes on sale.
7. But I’m not obsessing about buying it or needlessly delaying this inevitable purchase or anything.
8. OK, two weeks have gone by and my life is empty and chokingly meaningless without it so I’m just going to go buy it.
9. Well, shit. It’s gone.
9a. or: Now that I have it home, I’ve decided I really don’t like it so I’m going to return it.
10. I’m just going to run in to Target for a few quick things.

SO! Imagine my surprise when—mere hours after we realized that we’d probably need to buy an easy-to-use recliner with a tall back for my dad because he’ll have problems sleeping in a flat bed when he comes home from the hospital so we were going to split up and start multiple Step Ones at all the recliner stores in town this afternoon—Mom sent me an urgent text telling me to come to the first recliner store she’d visited because she’d found the perfect recliner and she’d put a hold on it and wanted me to come test it before she bought it.

Which I did. And then which SHE did.

Let me type this slowly for you so you can comprehend its tectonic shiftiness: My mother, the High Priestess of the Ten Steps of Painfully Indecisive Covetousness, BOUGHT AN EASY-TO-USE-RECLINER WITH A TALL BACK ON JUST THE FIRST STEP. Without even blinking.

I’ll give you a moment to lift your jaws up from the shifting tectonic plates beneath you.

What’s more, our awesome, truck-having neighbor Dan just happened to be free and willing to transport the recliner home for us ... and within 90 minutes start-to-finish we became the proud owners of a new easy-to-use recliner with a tall back. WITH NINE UNUSED STEPS JUST HANGING OUT IN SPACE IN A FOG OF ABANDONMENT AND CONFUSION. But maybe I can sell them individually on Etsy.

Anyway! I had to do some major furniture shuffling to fit our new easy-to-use recliner with a tall back into our living room, but I think it’s now in a primo spot where Dad can be comfortable and not feeling like he’s jutting out into the room as he entertains visitors. And he has a bunch of medical stuff—in addition to his boombox for his books on tape—that he’ll need to keep near him, so I repurposed some decorative chests to become decorative side tables for him. Plus I cleaned them all with Liquid Gold, which those of us who like our wooden antiques to be alarmingly shiny know takes 17 days to dry. So that’s why I’m posting this artfully composed, judiciously-cropped-so-you-can’t-see-what-a-mess-the-rest-of-the-room-is photo at 7:42 instead of 4:00.

But doesn’t my dad’s new man-corner look handsome?

(It’d look mega-more handsome without that butt-ugly quilt and that why-the-hell-do-we-have-a-genuine-oil-painting-of-a-stranger-holding-a-gun-in-our-living-room painting. But rectifying those situations opens a whole new Ten Stages Of Painfully Indecisive Purging process. So let’s all just admire my alarmingly shiny wooden side tables for now.)

I KNEW IT

Dad’s “COPD” is a LIE. His “pneumonia” is a LIE. His “staph” is a LIE. His trip to the ER that he staged with the sexy-forearmed doctor and his last four nights in the hospital ... all dirty LIES LIES LIES LIES LIES.

You want to know the tip-off that made me a Mueller to his trump? He “doctor” finally, conspicuously casually, said OUT LOUD and CONVENIENTLY RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME that Dad “can’t breathe dust” ... especially from CAT LITTER.

So here’s the scoop: This whole clump of coughy lies lies lies is all just an elaborate ruse TO MAKE ME HAVE TO CLEAN BITCH KITTY’S LITTER BOX EVERY WEEK INSTEAD OF HIM.

Poopy. The whole thing is just poopy.

Dear Universe,

I know I whine relentlessly about how big my approaching-50-years-old tummy is getting, but I just took my mom to the doctor and then stopped at the grocery store on the way home because she wanted popsicles and raspberry sherbet and I accidentally walked through the bakery aisle on the way to the popsicle-and-raspberry-sherbet department and they had fresh cream-cheese brownies and I’m helpless around fresh cream-cheese brownies so what can you do but anyway I’ve earned a tiny little cheat snack so please don’t judge me for what I’m about to eat as my late lunch.

(P.S. I also wiped off the kitchen counter real nice for this photo.)

I just had my six-week psychiatrist checkup

(I'm still crazypants biploar but things continue to be stable and we're not altering my meds this time, thanks for asking) and when my psychiatrist met me in the waiting room she asked me if it was OK if a residency doctor observed my visit and of course I said yes because I'm clearly not a hide-my-crazypants-biploarness person and when we got to her office and she opened the door and he was politely standing there waiting to shake hands and introduce himself OH MY GOD HE WAS TALL AND HANDSOME AND LET'S NOT MINCE WORDS HERE HOT HOT HOT and we sat down for my visit but I kept looking over at his let's still not mince words here sexy forearms because that's all I could see besides his face because he rudely wasn't wearing a Speedo and WHY ARE YOU SO HOT STOP DISTRACTING ME and we talked about all the usual stuff like my moods and my appetite and my feelings of control and my ability to concen OH MY GOD I CAN'T CONCENTRATE BECAUSE JUST LOOK AT HIM HE'S TOO HOT TO WALK THIS EARTH trate and any side effects of my meds (still lingering exhaustion, but thankfully it's not 24 hours a day like it has been) and is there anything else I think would be relevant to tell her WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME HAVE YOU EVEN NOTICED THE LET'S AGAIN NOT MINCE WORDS HERE HOT HOT HOT MAN WHO'S ABOUT TO BE A DOCTOR AND I THINK WE CAN ALL AGREE IT WOULD BE A VERY GOOD THING FOR ME TO MARRY A DOCTOR AND HE'S SITTING IN THAT CHAIR RIGHT THERE SO CLOSE I COULD STARE AT HIM FOR HOURS WHOOPS I JUST DID and I said that I've actually ramped up the activities in my life like Follies rehearsals and editing a massive book pro bono and making my bedroom renovation finally really start to happen and cleaning out the storage room in our basement AND WHY WHY WHY DOES THIS INSANELY HANDSOME MAN HAVE TO KNOW I'M CRAZYPANTS BIPOLAR PLUS NOW HAVE A DOCTOR-PATIENT RELATIONSHIP WITH ME BECAUSE THAT PRETTY MUCH GUARANTEES THAT'S THE ONLY KIND OF RELATIONSHIP WE'LL EVER HAVE BUT HOLY SHIT WE'D LOOK HANDSOME IN OUR WEDDING PHOTOS and she gave me some more free samples of my really expensive medication and we scheduled my next six-week visit AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD AND HOLY MAKE SURE HE'S STILL RESIDENTING WITH YOU WHEN I GET BACK IN SIX WEEKS and I think we had a really productive visit.

Seriously?

Three likes and one retweet? SERIOUSLY?

You and I both know this is pop-culture comedy GOLD, and I take umbrage at the implication that I'm somehow too old to know what all the bands are that the cool kids are listening to these days on their long-playing albums. Rude.

It’s alarming how charming I feel

When you have an oven fire and you had to cut the wires to the hard-wired smoke alarm system because the smoke alarms WOULDN’T STOP SCREAMING AT YOU and the house won’t stop smelling like the contestants on Bottom Chef so you have to buy oven cleaner that chaps the life out of your hands and Lysol that barely starts to work after a day of repeated sprayings and battery-powered smoke detectors that require you to accept the challenge of capping off the electrical source though you still can’t find it and removing the hard-wired smoke detectors first which really should be done by a stable genius and did I mention how chapped my hands are and how smoke-alarming the house smells and that the guy at the hardware store — who is older than I am — somehow managed to turn our conversation about oven cleaner into a recommendation that I should try marijuana?

#FireAndFury
#FireAndFuckThisShit

I have one of those on the end of my toilet brush too!

#ElfShelfies

Happy birthday to my awesome brother-in-law

and father to my children. Well, technically, they're not MY children but I love them more because I used to buy them candy on the sly when they were much younger because THAT'S WHAT UNCLES DO. Oops ... where was I? Oh, yes: My brother-in-law has helped raise two decent, thoughtful, informed, involved kids (one of whom is co-authoring a play celebrating cultural and human diversities as we speak and the other of whom is in college as we speak studying political science so he can improve our country and world), obsessively power-washed his driveway on every day that ends in y, missed a few big sportsball games on occasion so the rest of us could watch musicals populated with frolicking men in ill-fitting tights as a family, and volunteered to climb the high, scary, pants-wetting ladder so I could stay safely close to the ground on the low, scary, pants-wetting ladder when we painted his house. Most importantly, he has always, without fail or even slightly crumbling resolve, shooed the entire family out of his kitchen so he could do all the dishes -- even after the 14-course state dinner we hosted for Angela Merkel just because we enjoy saying her name -- and thus saved me from having to do dishes, which I hate more than folding laundry or watching Donald Trump do that anus thing with his lips. So everybody call my brother-in-law at work today and sing Happy Birthday in long, fermata-ed whole notes so he can really savor the experience. And buy him gift cards from Michaels because that place gives him hives and I think if he could just buy some dried branches and styrofoam cones without using his own money, it could be like a gateway drug and he could conquer his fears and start making pipe-cleaner snowmen skating merrily on oddly shaped mirrored ponds to give as Christmas gifts or maybe Epiphany gifts for those of you at the end of the alphabet.

Ugh

When you casually wipe off ONE LITTLE SMUDGE from the side of your car and it suddenly spreads into a tidalwave of smeary grime that you’ll now clearly be wiping off and evening out until 12 years after you die.