humor – Tough Bananas

Code Name: Fogelberg

We recently got a puppy under a few conditions, one of which is that I would get up with him in the mornings and walk him. I am still not a morning person, but four months in…I’m not mad about it.

On one of these quiet mornings with just me and the pup, I decided to bake some cookies and listen to music. The night before I had fallen down a rabbit hole thanks to TikTok and fell asleep to the musical musings of Kenny Loggins.

If you think I was revisiting the 80s and the Top Gun version of Kenny, let me stop you right there. I was deep into the 70s Kenny of the duo Loggins and Messina and their hit, “Danny’s Song” and then “House at Pooh Corner” and then “A Love Song” because that’s how rabbit holes (and my brain) work. These were all recorded years before I was born, but my parents were big Anne Murray fans and she had covered several Loggins and Messina ballads back in the day, so this Canadian kid was in the know.

On this morning, “Danny’s Song” replayed based on my search history, and was followed by “Leader of the Band” which was a song I only vaguely recalled…until the chorus. When that chorus hit I found myself singing along word for word without error or thought.

The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man
I’m just a living legacy to the leader of the band

I was shocked. Who is Dan Fogelberg? How did I know that was the artist’s name? Where did this hidden knowledge come from? What else do I have locked away in my brain?

This must be what a sleeper agent feels like when their code word is finally spoken and they are activated.

I let the random playlist continue in order to test my spy hypothesis. There were a couple of false positives such as when I began singing along to “Operator, can you help me place this call” before Jim Croce (didn’t know I knew his name) began to sing the opening bars.

Recollections I never knew were sealed away in my mind interrupted this kitchen concert for an audience of one. I was time travelling while baking cookies and, unprompted, I could clearly picture our old console TV and how I’d change the channel with my feet (no clickers back then). I could feel the texture of high-low shag carpet in our living room and the burned spot from when my brother dropped a light fire log on it. Granted, the seventies were a wild decade of very questionable fashion and decor tastes, so it is also possible I repressed these memories. Really repressed them.

Another possibility is that I really am a seventies music fan, but don’t want to admit it. Many of those artists and songs would have been a background soundtrack to my life. My parents had an extensive vinyl collection back in the day and while they leaned more to Roger Whittaker, Anne Murray, and George Baker Selection, there must have been some of the others mixed in there.

And there’s another explanation. That puppy we recently brought home? His name is Denver. As in John Denver the folk singer of the seventies. An artist who is in my favourites playlist. And yes, I suggested his name.

But let’s not rule out the sleeper agent theory, because I didn’t name him Fogelberg, did I?

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Ever have a sleeper agent moment? I can’t be the only one. Let me know I’m not alone in this.

Trial By Grade One

In the elementary education system, the educators are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: The primary division, who initiate students into school life, and the junior division, who bravely use urban dictionary to find out what their students are saying.

These are their stories.

There is a wee bit of a supply teacher shortage going on, in case you haven’t heard. So one Friday not long ago, some of us were reassigned for part of the day to help cover a grade one class. Some were cocky enough to volunteer because “it’s only thirty minutes, no big deal.”

Oh, it was a big deal alright.

I am not new to teaching younger classes, but it has been a while. You know how after time passes, you remember things differently, usually more positively? (my teacher bestie says I have a tendency to frequently don my rose-coloured hindsight glasses – that’s fair.) This is one of those times.

If you chat with a grade one learner, they can hold a reasonable conversation. I see them following the line leader down the hall, putting on their snowsuits independently, managing their lunch containers on their own. All these casual exchanges inflated my confidence that half an hour with these little cherubs would be a breeze.

Primary teachers, this cannot be stated enough, you have superpowers the rest of us can only hope to attain.

Things started off great! I read them one of my favourite books, silly voices and all. They hung on every word. We had a lovely follow up discussion about flamingos and how someone’s brother ate the last Bear Paw. Which led us into what I thought would be the pinnacle (and easiest) part of their day: the long-awaited FREE TIME.

Kids went off and got out blocks, doll houses, building toys, and games. It was glorious. For 4 minutes. Then there was “the incident”.

I am a firm believer that being curious and asking questions is a helpful way to navigate life. That is not always true in an elementary class.

Me: Why would you hit him?

Student: He took my train. And HE HIT ME, TOO.

Me: That’s not the best way to solve the problem. How did you feel when he hit you?

Student, leans in and whispers: I mean, he isn’t that strong, I didn’t really feel anything.

We both agreed that next time words would be a better option and there was no need to pursue the matter further. With that situation now resolved thanks to my top-notch conflict resolution skills, I realized it was getting close to home time, so I asked, “How much time do you need to get ready?”

A few students quickly replied, “usually about five minutes.”

And with that answer I discovered that grade one students grossly underestimate their getting-ready-for-home-skills and that I am far too trusting.

Reader, there was panic, sweat, and possibly tears (some were even the students) as the bell time drew near and we were nowhere close to being ready.

“LEAVE THE CHAIRS I WILL STACK THEM FOR YOU.”

“You have to wear YOUR boots, not just any pair in the hallway. Please, I’m begging you.”

“IF YOU TAKE THE BUS JUST GO. YOU’VE GOT THIS. I BELIEVE IN YOU.”

Rest assured, all students were matched up with their respective special someones. I left that grade one class with a renewed appreciation for my primary teacher colleagues. Oh, and also a sweet portrait (check out those biceps).

Tricks, for sure.

Our house is going to get egged this Halloween, of that I am certain.

No, we remembered to take down our Christmas lights (eventually). And no, we haven’t forgotten to bring in our garbage bins. To the best of my knowledge no one in our household has started any feud recently.

But for sure we are going to get egged.

It goes back to November 1 of last year. That’s the day my husband went candy shopping for this year. He was pretty pleased with himself and the deals he found. And we have patiently stored his haul for 364 days. He hid it in a shopping bag at the back of our storage closet, which is overkill – no one was scheming to sneak some of that candy.

When I was a kid, stumbling upon the house that gave out full-size chocolate bars was like winning the lottery. The only thing better was the neighbour who handed out cans of pop, but that’s another story for another day. I dreamed of the day that I would be the grown-up making Halloween dreams come true and be the house that everyone flocked to because FULL SIZE BARS, GUYS. Some dreams do not come to fruition.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for buying post-Halloween candy on the cheap, but let’s be very clear, in no way is it to save for a full year. Nope – that candy is what gets me to Christmas break, plain and simple.

AND THIS IS WHY WE ARE GOING TO GET EGGED AND WE DESERVE IT.

There is a reason this candy was deeply-discounted. It is the worst. It’s not good the first time around, let alone after a year of sitting in our basement. Actually, I believe all the molasses kisses were made back in 1943 and the company has just been trying to unload them on people like my husband, my mom, and one person on the staff where I work. They are the only people I have ever met who choose molasses kisses over other candy options. Also I suspect they might be robots. Or aliens.

Dubble Bubble gum tastes stale when it’s fresh out of the wrapper. Did you know it can get even staler? It can. It did. I think I’ll keep a few handfuls to launch a counter-attack to the inevitable band of youth who will be pelting our house with eggs.

Rockets. They are just a sadder version of Sweet Tarts. Rockets taste like if Sweet Tarts were bullied: powdery defeat.

My well-intentioned and budget-conscious husband insists that these candies are “fine” and that “free candy is free candy”. To humour him, I offered samples of them to our boys and their friends. Surprisingly, the Dubble Bubble rallied briefly and was chewable. But ultimately it gave up it’s flavour within moments (not a surprise BECAUSE IT’S DUBBLE BUBBLE).

The molasses kisses were met with mixed reviews. The neighbour kid said it tasted find, but ended up spitting it out (see?). And one of my sons described them as “not that bad. Like a better version of a raisin.”

I rest my case.

Please send me your cleaning tips for removing eggs from bricks.

Behold, portable angst in a seasonal wrapper.

Sunday Funday

I look forward to Sundays. I mean I really look forward to Sundays. We start the day with church and then intentionally take time to relax and recharge for the new week. A typical Sunday includes coffee, time outdoors (weather permitting), reading, family game time, meal-planning, and if I’m really lucky: a nap.

Guess what my Sunday plans do not typically include. Go ahead, guess.

I can tell you this: my plans 100%, absolutely for certain do not include cleaning a poop puddle out of the basement shower. Yet that’s what happened. I have photo evidence thanks to being a mom of boys who enjoy taking photos of things like poop puddles. I have opted not to share those publicly, but trust me, they exist. I also thought that my issues with plumbing were over since the recent earring down the drain incident (if three time’s the charm, I am MOVING).

Our oldest child was hovering near the edges of the kitchen. He peeked around, then left. Skulked in a few steps, left again. Then he quietly told me (just me, even though his father was RIGHT beside me) “It wasn’t me, but the toilet in the basement is backed up and now there’s really gross water in the shower. I DID NOT DO IT.” He didn’t need to be so adamant about his lack of involvement. He has three younger brothers and I have seen the crime-scene level of destruction they have left in other washrooms to know he was not the likely culprit. And I didn’t even care who did it, I just didn’t want it to spread.

As per our pre-nup, my husband began plunger duty, I was the clean-up crew. I continued planning our meals and grocery needs for the week a safe distance from the sights and smells while getting increasingly frequent updates on the Poo-pocalypse of 2019 from our offspring.

Eventually the toilet was cleared, but there was still the issue of the standing water in the shower. It was like poop on steroids. I have never encountered a smell so terrible before, and please remember I live with five males, four of them being regular participants in games such as “Farting Morse Code Through the Furnace Vents”. This situation needed handling.

I put on my rain boots, rubber gloves, and old clothes and armed myself with that plunger. Glory, glory, hallelujah it cleared out with minimal effort or splatter.

Next I took care of the sink. What is wrong with my children that they managed to clog THREE different drains? Does no one under the age of 14 understand the word “sluggish” and its possible ramifications on the sewage system? I do not use that washroom, for what I hope are now becoming obvious reasons, so I had no idea it was that bad.

Check and check, all drains were cleared. However, no amount of Lysol, Febreeze, scented candle or diffused oil was going to rid our basement of that foul odour, plus that shower was now a tiny corner of bio-hazard grossness. I had to call in the big guns. Environmentally friendly products, you’re on the bench. Bleach, suit up. It was such a bad scene that my husband didn’t even dispute the need for chlorine. IT WAS THAT BAD. “Get out of the way, boys, your mom has work to do.”

Not today, White Sails, this is job for Javex.

I have failed to mention that the entire time I was plunging, spraying, inhaling fumes, and trying not to think about what I standing in, my boys alternated between playing ping pong and commentating on my status.

“Look! Mommy’s in the chokey! Just like Matilda!”

“I think she’s stuck, it’s a small shower.”

“Is she still breathing?”

“Are you still alive?”

“Are you sure you got it all?”

“Remember when there was all that poop in the shower?” (it had only been ten minutes earlier, so yes, I did remember).

“Hold still we’re recording this!”

I have never entered a shower as carefully as I did this very moment. Please note the protective gear, I’m no fool.

An old cotton t-shirt is a perfectly fine protective mask. It’s blurry due to photographer heckling.

I even got an unsolicited “thank you” which didn’t make up for this debacle, but kind of did make up for it.

The high I felt from a job well-done, or maybe the bleach fumes, did not last long. I decided to wash up and regroup from this Code Brown of Epic Proportions. The boys have been told not to harass me at the washroom door anymore. To their credit they did not. Harass me at the door. Instead I received a steady stream of texts from the living room.

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I need to be more specific and please note – their dad was RIGHT THERE.

No, Really, What’s That Smell?

I live in a house with four sons. It is loud and fun and chaotic. At any time you might find a pair of socks on the counter, paper airplanes in the light fixtures, or Lego pieces on the steps. Mostly I embrace these reminders of the high level of testosterone in our home. I don’t really know any different from my life with five males and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

EXCEPT.

Except the smell. We have tried to teach them manners and overall I think we have done okay. Then we have a run of “toilet humor days” and I feel like I’m failing. The gas is overwhelming and no amount of gentle and not-so-gentle reminders shuts down the flatulence.

This weekend was one of those weekends. We were in line for a live Nativity show and I thought a lamb was loudly bleating only to discover it was a massive belch from one of my offspring. While I was impressed with his sheer volume and pitch, I doubt Mary and Joseph were in awe (or the other patrons).

I was cozied up on the couch trying to recharge when I heard odd noises from the walls. Two brothers were farting to each other through the furnace grates. This time I pretended not to notice and kept on reading.

So when I went upstairs Sunday evening to put laundry away and there was an odour so thick you could see it, I had had enough. “THIS ENTIRE HOUSE STINKS AND I AM NOT IMPRESSED WITH ANY OF YOU” I shouted as I headed to the master bathroom. It was there I discovered the real source of the smell. Our sink drain was being cleared and there was a container of standing water under the pipe. I took decisive action and flushed the contents down the toilet. Done and done. The smell would dissipate. Yup, look at me being proactive and taking charge. Solving all the problems.

So clean. So empty of stinky standing water.

Yes, gentle reader, I was pretty proud of myself. Pretty proud, indeed. That is until I released the handle and watched the murky water swirling far, far away with all the miscellaneous sink contents with it. That’s when I panicked.

You see, a few days ago my sweet husband dropped my earring down the sink. I own one pair of not-costume earrings. They aren’t fancy, but they don’t turn my skin green after a few uses.

Not to point fingers, but I often place my earrings in the soap dish. And by often I mean every night. It wouldn’t be a surprise that my earrings are in the soap dish then, right? But on this day one of the not-cheap earrings was stuck on the bar of soap and dropped down the drain. Again, not blaming anyone but that soap did not pick itself up, JUST SAYING.

So for the next few days the sink was closed to prevent further travels of my beloved jewellery into the sewage system until proper attention could be paid to the drain. It was fine. I got used to brushing my teeth over the tub and changing all my other normal routines in order to preserve half of a gift from my mother. My beloved mother. It’s cool. I’m a very patient person. Plus I mostly forgot until I went to brush my teeth.

Plumbing day arrived and that’s where the stories collide.

My precious, one-of-a-kind earrings gifted to me by my mother. I remember that day so well. She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “these are for you, my most favourite child. Your life with all those males will be one of occasional hardship. May these earrings remind you of happy times and help you not to lose your temper.” I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

Now those treasured earrings are gone – with one well-intentioned flush. Swishing and sloshing their way to the big water treatment plant in the sky.

At least the sink drains properly now.

RIP semi-precious earrings. We had a good run.

The moral of this story? Don’t use bar soap.

Update: After digging around in the pipe catcher thingey, my earring was discovered! It’s a stinky miracle!

A Sweet Addition

We have some big news around here an I am so excited to share it with you, dear reader.

As you may recall, I enjoy having a bigger-than-typical family. Our crew of four boys brings me joy and I am grateful for them all and the (mostly) delightful chaos they bring into our home. Some well-meaning friends have suggested we get a dog to add to the mix. Hilarious.

We are not getting a pet (beyond the beta fish that has miraculously survived longer than its three departed predecessors). There is no cat, hamster, or guinea pig on the horizon. We went in a different direction. Five of us were on board with this decision right from the start. It took some convincing, but eventually my husband saw the wisdom of procuring our new family member.

Please help me welcome, Big Bag of Chocolate.

So glad we captured this precious moment. The whole family helped with the selection.

Cozy winter nights are perfect for reading with loved ones.

I would have shared the blanket, but melting is a real concern.

Hobbies are more fun when you share them with family.

Almost forgot how to do a sling. Almost.

Always ready to ruin things with healthy options, my husband.

Happy holidays! May your season be chocolate-filled.

Cross Cana-don’t

A beautiful summer evening at the community park is the perfect setting for playground games with neighbours. Or so you’d think.

It started out as a casual and active game of Mulch Man (a combination of the classic Tag and Sandman, but on mulch). There was laughter and joking and connections between friends. The squealing when a player just missed being caught could be heard across the field. Glorious. Just glorious.

Until it wasn’t.

Some of the children suggested we move on to a different game, namely Cross Canada. Essentially, all participants line up on one end of the playing area while the Tagger calls out a characteristic. If you have the characteristic, you may cross safely to the other side of “Canada”. After that, everyone just books it. If tagged, you join the Tagger until one player remains.

Just another classic game, right? Some harmless fun.

Nope.

The first round or two were innocuous: “Cross Canada if you are wearing blue” and “Cross Canada if you are older than seven” and “Cross Canada if you have kids.” Innocent enough. Then there was an almost imperceptible shift. The sky darkened (nevermind that it was sunset, that is just a coincidence) and a breeze travelled across the playing area.

“Cross Canada if you’re wearing shoes”. That eliminated myself and three family members because we are clearly lax in our footwear safety.

“Cross Canada if you took a bath this week.” We have a pool, we’re on a hygiene holiday. It’s fine.

“Cross Canada if cheese is your favourite food.” This feels like it’s getting pretty personal now.

That’s when I heard one of my children whisper to the neighbour kid, “You don’t have to be the fastest, you just have to be faster than my mom.” First of all: hurtful. Second: accurate, but please refer to previous point. I do have feelings.

“Cross Canada if you are wearing underwear.” Only two out of the five of us could rightly travel to safety on the other side of the field. This was beyond personal and was going to require answers none of us were ready to provide.

“Alright, everyone! Looks like it’s getting close to bedtime so I think we’ll just wrap this up before any more family secrets are spilled. Thanks for the play!”

Despite me being the one to shut down this session of Cross Canada, make no mistake, reader. I intend to use this new knowledge to my advantage. I volunteer to be Tagger all the time.

“Cross Canada if you loaded your dishes into the dishwasher.”

“Cross Canada if you are the one who broke my earbuds.”

“Cross Canada if you recently spilled pop on the basement carpet.”

“Cross Canada if you just put your clothes back in the dirty laundry because you didn’t want to refold them.”

Cross Canada. Cross Canada, indeed.

It’s All About Consistency

Raising kids is not easy, as any parent will exhaustedly tell you. There are universal challenges like temper tantrums and picky eaters, and more unique issues such as my sons’ habit of putting trash just behind the kitchen garbage pail where it gets shoved to back of the cupboard. All the time. Which means I strain my shoulder reaching back there to retrieve the wrappers and that has nothing to do with my less-than-ideal exercise regime. No, YOU need to stretch more often.

ANYWAYS. If I have learned anything over the past thirteen years or so of this motherhood gig, it is the importance of consistency. Children thrive on knowing limits and it’s our job as the adults to care enough to put those boundaries in place. So consistency is super important. Consistency and the ability to hide the good snacks to eat when the kids aren’t around. There is no point in wasting the fancy chips on the same kids who like door handles. But consistency, yes, that is very important.

It’s also a good idea to have a cover story for when your kids happen upon you while you are shoving peanut butter cups into your mouth. I find something like “it’s spicy, you won’t like it” or “it’s just a sugar-free protein bar – tastes like sadness” usually does the trick. Being prepared is also important.

Consistency, hiding snacks, and ~~lying~~ being prepared – all key to successful parenting.

Claiming the essential role of consistency is easy, but executing it is a whole different scenario. For instance, you declare that screen time is over, but then fall asleep for thirty sweet, sweet minutes. Tough to nail your kids for playing longer than allowed when you benefited from their disobedience. And so you enter into a silent agreement not to tell Daddy that Mommy is lax in the enforcement of the screen rules. Or (hypothetically) you allow your offspring “just two cookies because we need to be healthy” but then find yourself jonesing for a third so you proclaim it “Three Cookie Day” and again agree to keep it amongst yourselves*.

Consistency, hiding snacks, preparedness, and discretion. The four tenets of solid parenting.

Once you get into the habit of saying what you mean and meaning what you say, it becomes easier. For instance, years ago I high-fived one of the boys for a stellar belch and now they consistently look to me for an atta-boy whenever they rip one off. See? They know what to expect. Consistency.

There are critics out there (i.e. spouses) who might call your consistency into question. Why just the other day my husband pointed out an infraction of our agreement to avoid potty talk or the inappropriate use of the names of body parts. And I must admit that he had a point. We have routinely told our boys that discussing private parts or bodily functions is not the criteria for intelligent or polite conversation. However, the four brothers were sitting together giggling as they reassigned the nickname on the iPad to “Penis”. Hearing Siri say that in casual conversation is hilarious and if you can avoid laughing about it then you are a robot. It will never not be hilarious and I will laugh every time. Consistently.

See? It’s easy.

You’re welcome.

Whoopie Cushions will never not be funny. Fact.

How Much Do You Think I Paid? Wrong.

“Come here. You will not believe the deal I just got. You can even tweet it if you want.”

This was music to my ears. I was intrigued.

My husband loves a good deal. I don’t mean enjoys saving money, I mean he loves a good deal. Go-to-the-farmers-market-right-before-closing kind of deals. He’s the “sure I’ll take a case of really ripe bananas simply because it’s only $2” kind of guy.

My dad once bought so many frozen french fries that our family filled every freezer space available and finally resorted to handing them out to guests as they left. All because, “they were only $.17 a bag. SEVENTEEN CENTS.” This similarity between my dad and husband is not lost on me, but that’s another post for another day.

Aaaaanyways…back to the current amazing deal.

“I saw the price and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I told myself there was no way it was correct. TWO CENTS PER 100 GRAMS*? They were giving it away!”

Gentle reader, at this point I was really hoping it was doughnuts. It was not, but he did not disappoint.

“I emptied the bin,” he proudly told me. I felt like that didn’t need to be stated. Of course he did.

“I have a confession,” he solemnly told me, “For the first time in my life I tried something in the bulk section before I bought it.” Understandable, we wouldn’t want to see that $.34 go to waste.

My money-saving spouse cuddled in beside me on the couch and carefully smoothed out the bill. “I kept the receipt. I might frame it.”

The man I married was giddy. He was riding that money-saving high. But then I noticed he been quiet for a few moments. I looked up and saw him gazing at the bundles of confectionary on our kitchen counter. “This ranks right up with that case of broccoli I got for free that time.” Yes, or as I like to call it “the time our whole house smelled like farts.”

Eventually, our 8YO sauntered into the living area and asked why Daddy had bought so much candy. “Because it was on sale. It cost $0.34.” To which our son replied, “Well, can’t pass that up.” He is now the favourite child.

Later I thought he was putting away dishes, but I found him weighing one of the bags in his hand and whispering, “so beautiful.” I think he was more excited about this deal than the births of our four sons.

He then announced to me, “This bag could get us all the way to Florida.” Note: we are not going to Florida any time soon.

I thought we had moved past discussing these chocolate buttons, but an hour into the evening he told me that “the best part was I saw our friend, Dana there, and I got to these before she did.” Competition and money-saving. This deal wrapped all his love languages into a tidy little package.

If you’re in our area, please stop by. We have what your sweet tooth needs, plus the coffee is always on. But be warned: from now on, anyone who wants to enter the house must first answer the question, “How much do you think these cost?” Be a dear, would you? And estimate high.

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*100 grams = ~3.5 ounces

The Game is Afoot

For twelve years the house has been the battle ground for a war no one saw coming and no one wanted.

Good versus evil, dark versus light, brother pitted against brother. Wait, no, mother versus all the boys.

The invasion was slow and insideous at first. A few dinky cars here, a rogue block there. Then another son was born, and the arsenol grew. Legos entered the fray, more dinky cars. Soon action figures could be found strewn across the steps. It was no longer safe to traverse the basement, a talking toy could be triggered at the slightest movement.

This home was no longer the mother’s domain, the children had taken over.

As the offsprings’ numbers and independence grew, so did the snacks. The crumbs, sweet Moses, the crumbs! Entire muffins were decimated and left as a warning to future carbs. Beware, no bread product is safe from these kids. RUN WHILE YOU CAN.

Silly Putty in the furnace ducts, abandoned socks on coffee tables, Nerf bullets in the toilets, Star Wars figures in the nativity sets. The horror.

The mother’s cries of “THIS IS NOT A PRESCHOOL” and “WHY ARE THERE MARBLES IN THE FRYING PAN?” were met with silence or half-hearted attempts to tidy. She raised the stakes and threatened “if it’s on the floor it’s out the door” but everyone knew she wouldn’t follow through.

“I just want one clear space for my coffee cup,” the mother whisper-cried as she tossed “art” into the recycling bin. “Everything has a home! Let’s keep our things in their home and please stop using my scarves to build forts” she sing-songed manically while gathering up granola bar wrappers from the underneath the couch.

And then it happened.

Was it just a happy little accident, that years of stepping over Lego minefields seemed to solve itself? Perhaps.

Her weapon? Bobby pins.

Did she leave them in her pockets on purpose? Was it her plan all along that the pins would end up going through the wash? Did she know that this oversight would result in bobby pins ending up in bedsheets, hoodie pockets, and bath towels for the family to disover with great annoyance? Was her subconcious exacting retribution? And now that the family has discovered how frustrating it was to have a house overrun with tiny and pokey objects left haphazardly in her wake, would she be more careful?

Answer? No, no, no, maybe, and nope.

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Daily Prompt – Dominant