Stank, Towers, Bumps, and Carvings

What is it about the parents’ bedroom?  

This is not mine.  I promise...

not that I am judging this one.  I am not.  

It looks nice.

And please don’t tell me you have a nice parents’ bedroom.  If you do, stop reading this right now...no, wait – read just this:  I have a nice parents’ bedroom, too.  It is incredible....a sanctuary of classy furniture; fine fabrics, and organized, dust free, modern conveniences all within arms reach of the bedside.  OK.  You can go now.  Have a nice day...in your nice bedroom (terrible parent).  

For the rest of you, now that we have cleared out “the others,” I want to talk about why we feel our bedrooms should be everything that is wrong with us...on steroids; no wait, not steroids...street drugs...whatever kind of drugs leave you dirty and sleeping in dirt...

yes, those.

And, now, a mental tour of my own Master Bedroom.  

First, you have to open the door.  We love to keep the door shut.  This is for an assortment of reasons, but – most importantly – it is so I am not tempted to peek in there every time I pass that doorway (6,385 times a day) to be reminded that my life is apparently in shambles. Of secondary importance...the door stays shut in the off-chance that a visitor strays down the hallway.  Any outsider going down the hallway is on a fact-seeking mission, and that heathen's plan of debunking you should be thwarted.  Anyone who is bold enough to OPEN the door should be cuffed and escorted to their vehicle.  BOOM.

A bedroom has a door for a reason...just like a purse has a zipper.  Once, a Spiritual Adviser told me that the state of the inside of my purse was the state of my inner life.  I tipped my purse to expose a soiled diaper; a spare - old and fuzzy - cleanish diaper that was now a few sizes too small, and some wipes in a baggie.  I assure you, there wasn’t another blessed thing in there.  I mean, it isn’t like I am going to remember to put my WALLET in my purse...my wallet was home on the counter where it belongs.  After laughing with tears streaming down my face (I am always thankful for those cleansing laughs), we determined my inner life was for shi#. 

I miss that adviser...so kind, so good...such a subdued cutup...I was so good for her.  

In any case, I imagine that the state of the Master is also an indication of something VERY BAD about your life.  

Apparently, my life, like my purse, smells.  If you open the door to my bedroom, you are met with a stale odor.  I mean, what IS that smell?  Is there a sickly hobbit living in the back alcoves of the closet?  It reeks like...like...maybe crunchy socks (tell me you have found a crunchy sock...or, again, stop reading) mixed with burnt canola oil?  I dunno.  Maybe vegetable oil...not canola.  In any case...dirty sock food...you know.

Once you get past the smell of sizzling hobbit socks, you will notice the lawn.der.ree.  You will notice it because it will topple over ON you because everyone knows that you cannot walk near it, thereby vibrating the floor near the stack(s) of lawn.der.ree.  It is a soft game of Jenga.  You need underwear, you have to try to pull it from the tower. You knock the tower over, you have two choices:  pick it up for the next six hours OR run like the wind.  There’s a lot of wind here.  This means that the lawn.der.ree is a bit strewn...oh, heck...it’s a lot strewn, I mean there is no sense lying now – you know about the hobbit.

So, your evolving visual:  a floor covering of clean (rahhhhaaaa) clothes, behind which soars a leaning achievement of craftsmanship.  We, the Free Laundry Stackers (FLS), are a secret society.  We meet in musty sheds and plan world domination. All the Kennedy and Bush females were/are members - we're bipartisan.

This symbolizes a pile of laundry.

So, stanky air, a carpet of clothing, and then...then...the bed...over yonder.  THIS bed has never been made.  It is said that the untold blankets on THIS bed, a king-sized, are for a twin bed.  However, the blankets are intertwined in such a complex system that this has never actually been proven.  In fact, the hobbit could be hiding in there; the hobbit could be one of those bumps...or it could be a cat.  Either way, don’t sit on it.

If you are the mother...your place is in the far right upper corner... no... higher... higher... yes, right there, next to the clock.... no, closer... closer to the clock; yes, there...yes, put your nose against the face of the clock.  Yes, I know it is glowing red inside your closed eyeballs.  Stop complaining.  That’s your spot.  NO.  Don’t stretch your legs.  Why are you stretching your legs?  The hobbit-cat bump is there.  You want WHAT?  A blanket?  Oh sure, and how about taut body parts...would you like that, too?

I took some time out to pose for this.

The mother’s spot – that postage stamp-sized area in front of the clock – is sanctuary.  Enjoy that little square of excess.  It is the only good-smelling spot in the house.  It smells like shampoo – because you go to bed with your head wet...because you are not allowed to stand around DRYING your hair.  What is this...A SPA?  Come on, now.  You have a lamp in the corner, next to your square...stick your head under that.

The rest of the room is dark.  We keep the blinds drawn.  Obviously.

The furniture has been attacked.  We are not sure the exact dates of the incidents, but it is legend that elusive forces with sharp tools (from your junk drawer) entered in the darkness (constant darkness) to carve the wood and spell words with backwards letters...apparently a dyslexic gang.  They go under the alias, “Naw Me” - sounds Asian.  The kids know all about them - probably learned about them on Youtube - and are quick to spurt out their name in events of ruin and graffiti.  I am sure you have heard of them. 

So, let us review - stank, towers, bumps, and carvings...that about sums it up.  

There are a few crooked pictures on the wall, but DON’T TOUCH THEM.  The dust is stacked up just so on the top of the frame.  Release that into the air, and...well...you won’t really do anything about it, but it just SOUNDS wrong, doesn’t it?

Okay, so we were going to talk about why our (OUR...cuz I am under the impression that YOURS looks like MINE) Master Bedrooms look like THAT.

Why.  Why do we let our Masters’ Quarters rot?  Why?  Tell me.  Someone tell me. 

I don’t hear anyone.

Well then...

Why are there soiled diapers in my purse?

Crickets...appalled crickets.

Well.  We can just think about it for a while then.  Probably, if you answer these questions, you will find eternal happiness.  You will also find underwear more easily.  You will also find things you didn’t want to find.

As for me, I’ve set up basecamp, behind the bump –

I’m gonna capture me a ninja with a developmental reading disorder.

 This is not a ninja.