Going once…going twice…and the chucks are sold!
If it’s the oil that needs changing, he’s all over it. If I need a picture hung, wood split, or the vehicles washed, he’s my man. It’s the frequent – um, reminders of my wardrobe deficits that have him looking pale around the gills. Fixer and problem solver that he is, he’s out of his depth on this one. Which is why, I suspect, he’s thinking of jumping a trawler bound for Monaco.
Believe it or not, this girl finds it hard to let go of her hard-earned money in the clothing section. Not only that, I find myself struck with paralysis there, unable to make a decision. So I leave, empty handed and frustrated again. And I mention it.
It would be a great relief for all involved to have this issue resolved. That’s why I’m turning to eBay to raise a little money. Surely there are some items around here that I could auction off for my clothing drive.
Take these plastic light sabers. I think it’s time for them to go. Why the boys love these things is beyond me. I’m no Hillary Clinton, but the minute the slashing and whacking start up, I become Secretary of Our Small State. Mom’s my name, and riot suppression’s my game.
I can only wish they were veterans. As in “our fighting days are over and we are docile members of a lodge” veterans. As in FFFFs (Former Fighters of Foreign Fracases). But no. These guys are DFMSs, or Domestic Fighters of Modern-day Skirmishes. That’s why the sabers must be sold.
I can’t say all that, of course, so I’ll have to get a bit creative when I write it up. “For sale,” the ad might read. “Three plastic sabers in good condition. Guaranteed to stimulate the imagination, transforming a boy into a Jedi knight or ancient warrior.
“High safety profile with a softly-rounded plastic tip (I won’t mention the welts). Purchase of more than one will ensure hours of animated sibling interaction. Your bid is your vote for family ties and good times. Available in purple, green, and red.”
The next item I could auction for cash is the pair of chucks, or high-topped basketball shoes that routinely park in the middle of the floor. Somewhere in our gene pool, wires got crossed or something dark was spliced in because the Schrock children have a genetic mutation that scientists have recently identified as the plopping gene.
This is manifested by compulsive plopping of backpacks, jackets, and sneakers directly in the traffic stream. Including the offending chucks. Numerous reminders have only left me with inflamed vocal cords, so I’m taking matters into my own gloved hands. These babies are going up on the block.
“Lightly worn, high-topped canvas basketball shoes,” I’ll say. “Size 9. Color, black. Style highly reminiscent of the movie ‘Hoosiers.’ Likely to evoke dreams of glory, of unlikely champions, and of underdogs that win. Hearkens to an era of soda shops, family values, and Lucille Ball. Click here to place your bid.”
Next up is the requisite bucket of Legos that every family with boys has per the Mandatory Lego Law of Sixty-Six. This was passed by senators, all male, who obviously had no sons themselves. I know this for a fact because I know who usually cleans stuff up. It’s not the daddies. Believe me, the mamas know how hard it is to find all those pieces the kids just dumped out. A woman would’ve thought twice before passing a law like that.
I also know this because stepping on a Barbie in the dark of night is not the same as stepping on a Lego block. One sharp piece implanted in your foot and you’d remember it when that bill came through. You would also remember hopping up and down on one leg and all the unsavory words that the “praise the Lord” had to jump over to get out. No way you’re voting yes after that.
This is why I’m selling that bucket. Of course, I’ll tout it as the eighth wonder of the world, a creativity enhancer for little geniuses. Why, thanks to those colorful pieces, I’ll enthuse, you may discover you have a world-famous engineer or architect on your hands who will one day, bless his little heart, build the next Eiffel tower.
I could, if I were very brave, put that Other Pile up for sale to advance my cause. The “Other Pile” is the one I walk by every night. It consists of khaki trousers and a sharp dress shirt that were – well, plopped just this side of the laundry room. Thing is, The Plopper knows where I live, and he’s already out of sorts about the whole clothes thing. I think I’ll hold on this. For now.