Shit Happens…

necessitiesSometimes, quite literally. Thus the plunger, but I’m getting ahead of myself…

A small gathering of friends to celebrate Alethea‘s birthday was off to a great start. We dressed up for the Oscars, looked damn good, and ate an incredible dinner. Bob made his signature turkey (amazing!), Dickie made the stuffing, Della was in charge of the buns, and Joe and I handled the potatoes and corn. It was a feast. It was a beautiful thing.

Several of us were lounging in the living room, half watching a horrible football game on television and accepting the tryptophan myth when we were startled to alertness by a crash from upstairs. Seems that Bob and Mark were practicing their mad ninja skills on one another and as Mark went down his foot came up and a pane on the closet door became the enemy. In spike heels and a dress I vacuumed the mess (all I needed was pearls for a great Donna Reed impersonation) and told them them “things break.”

Mark reassured an apologetic Hippie, “No really, dude. it’s not a person, just a thing. Things break. She’s not upset, just glad everyone’s ok.” And it’s true. At the end of the day, it’s just a thing. It doesn’t matter if it’s a cheap thing or an heirloom, it’s just a thing. It’s a shame, not a tragedy.

A few of us went outside to smoke and there was a brief discussion on how more households should be like that—things break.Things happen. There’s no blood. Move on.

And, of course, Murphy was eavesdropping.

We walked back into the house to the cheery call of, “Keep your shoes on! It’s ok, no one got hurt, just broke a glass.”

All right…

It’s all cleaned up, no worries. It was just a glass, no worries.

Wait ten minutes and, if you’re lucky, you can have a crazy photo shoot in the living room. A pile on the couch, *snap*. Everyone attack the Dickie, *snap*. Everyone attack the Della, *snap*. Oh wait, a late-comer! Amanda on Dickie’s lap like Santa, rowdy and giggling, *crack!* Yep, that last one wasn’t a snapping camera, it was a cracking rocking chair.

Really?

Oookay. Things break. It’s my rule. I just don’t remember suggesting we see how far we could push said rule.

headcheckAnd then the lice happened. Not really breaking anything, other than a 12-year-old psyche, which was eventually fixable. We cleaned, we scrubbed, we burned her head and we went to sleep. And woke up to find that the little bastards were not gone. All right, then! Round two. Line everyone up like monkeys at the zoo digging for a light snack and start checking heads. Find some here, some there, and the occasional single critter that we dubbed “contact high.” That’s enough for napalm. Burn everyone’s heads, clean everything in the house, dip everything in bleach and chemicals, and boil all the hairbrushes.

Which worked great, except for melting MY brush. Hmmm… say it with me, children. “Things break.”

Laundry going. Wild rice casserole in the making. Psyche getting better. All is good. I grab my smokes to head outside and Della comes flying down the stairs with a look on her face. A look that lets me know something else had broken.

“The upstairs toilet…”

Enough said.

“Hippie!!!!” I called “girl” and let him fix it. Of course, I didn’t expect that would mean shoving his entire arm into the toilet. So to make up for it, I did something “girl” and ran to get supplies, thus the picture above. As we were keeping extra bodies an extra day to make sure all heads and bedding and jackets and slippers and psyches were lice-free, we needed more food and a plunger and, of course, the ingredients for Monkey Bread.

Shit Happens. Sometimes literally. Other times it’s just a nice catch-all phrase. It encompasses broken glasses, broken windows, broken toilets, broken rocking chairs, melted hair brushes, and in a pinch, can even cover head lice and the psyche of a 12-year-old girl now nicknamed Typhoid Mary.

Happy Birthday, Alethea. Be careful what you wish for…

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