I heard on news radio today, everyone in business at some point in their career comes to a fork in the road. I came to one today.
In the process of cleaning my lint trap in the dryer, I noticed a couple of extra pink fluffs in that long, narrow crevice under the removable mesh cup, sitting in limbo somewhere between fabric softener heaven and lost sock hell, so I decided to use the first thing I saw on the counter to reach as far as I could with a small, orange, plastic fork to remove the former towel/sweater/princess pyjama bottom obstruction.
I dropped the fork. My sausage fingers were no match for its slender, flimsy frame.
I grabbed for one of the girl’s plastic chopsticks from a kitchen drawer, the kind that are attached at the top with some sort of animal (in this case, a dolphin) to make the frustrating task of eating Thai food like a grown-up, less cumbersome. The kids love their dolphin and monkey chopsticks as well as their whale and princess crown sets (we eat a lot of Thai food).
Car seat baby climbs on top of my now buckling knees to see what all of the fuss is about, knocking my surgeon-steady hands. Joining the plastic fork down a deep skinny, fluffy pink dungeon are the dolphin chopsticks. I’m in trouble.
I shouted things like; “Forkin’ Dryer!” while Chloe looked at me and started in with her “Abu…Abu…abu….abu?” routine. Yes Abu, mommy swears. Please don’t make “forkin’ dryer” your first two words but if you do, I’ll be proud of you for stringing four syllables together and being passionate about something.
Greg enters: Whatcha doing there?
Why do I always think when he asks me that it’s because he thinks I’m doing something sinister, like I’m supposed to scramble and hide my big pile of cocaine or something. Can you order coke in piles? Can you order coke?
Me: I’m just adding to my secret runaway “Sleeping With The Enemy” stash of cash dear. You found me out.
Mommy is now adding tape to a second set of chopsticks Abu, allow me to explain. Talking to myself (the baby) gives me hope that I haven’t just destroyed our brand new machine and if I talk my way through the procedure that our game of Operation has ironically prepared me for, it takes a little of the stress away.
The baby has grabbed the hanger that I’ve been using, having fashioned a small hook at the end and is clawing at the wet clothes in the dryer, pulling them one by one onto the floor.
I start shoving them back in and telling her that Mommy had an “uh-oh” and I am trying to fix it.
Baby: Uh-oh! Uh-oh! Uh-oh! For ten straight minutes while she pokes me with the sharp edge of the hanger, curled end digging for dolphin chopsticks, plastic fork and what’s left of my dignity. I have now lost visibility of the fork and the chopsticks. What I can see is the pair of purple people-eater underwear that if possible, look even worse when in a damp heap on the floor than when worn.
Sometimes when Chloe sees I’m stressed, she brings me things. Today, she decided to run to the kitchen, retrieve some orange peels from the garbage and offer them up to help with the mining project. When I wasn’t quick enough to take peels glued with coffee grinds, she tossed them into the dryer, onto the clean, damp clothes.
ABU! Abu! Abu! Abu!
Uh oh Abu! I’d recognize that warm, brown sensation on my leg any day. Shit! You’ve got to be kidding me!
Today my fork in the road involved a fork in the dryer, one pair of dolphin chopsticks, one “forkin’ dryer!” one shit (expletive), one shit (literal) on my pants. Sure would be nice if I could wash and dry them.
I think tomorrow I’ll look for someone to spoon.
