What Price Silly Bandz?

I’m mean. Okay, I’m being a Drama Queen when I say that; however, my breasts automatically give me the inalienable right to be a Drama Queen according to the Declaration of Chick Independence. See, my blog is educational; before today, you didn’t even know that such a declaration existed, even if the only document existed in my mind.

Anyway, in my 40-something years, I know I have been mean. Like most of us, sometimes it was totally unintentional; sometimes it was totally intentional. When I was 8 years old, I told my 7-year-old sister that it was perfectly okay to run through the sprinkler while holding our cat, KC; that was mean, and she still has the scar on her chest.

Yesterday, I spent most of the day cleaning the house. Surely, that’s not a mean thing. Actually, it was a good thing and a thing that deserved a medal because I’m the only one who does it.

The weekend before last, I only cleaned the downstairs due to time constraints and a general WTF cleaning attitude. As I climbed the stairs to my office (a desk in the corner at the end of the hallway) last Friday night, I noticed that the dust bunnies that were hiding behind the scattered pairs of shoes on the stairs were beginning to take on epic proportions. They were beginning to resemble my 14-pound Maine Coon Cat, Liam.

I then said to myself, “Sunday is not a day of rest. It is the day of cleaning.” I raced up the second tier of steps thinking that one of those dust bunnies might reach out and claw me in the calf. When I got to the top of steps, I looked back down, and I could have sworn that the dust bunnies said, “Redrum!”

When Sunday arrived, I cleaned the house furiously. That’s a lie; I didn’t. I only cleaned the house furiously after I watched ROT (Rubbish on TV) until noon.

Given that I worked 40 hours a week, a stressful 40-hours a week, cleaning the house seemed to be the anti-icing on my marble cake lately. Sadly, I loved icing. And, I could leave the cake and just eat the icing most times.

Anyway, I realy did love cleaning. In some ways, it was therapy for me. But, when I was overloaded, it became like everything else; it was something to postpone.

At 1pm on Sunday, I began to clean the counters. Be gone English Muffin (and did you know that these really aren’t English according to my friend who lives in the UK?!)
crumbs under the toaster! Be gone red wine rings from the bottle from which I was only going to have one glass. Be gone sticky gunk that was no doubt from a snack that Iz tried to fix herself.

Two hours, 20 paper towels, and 30 squirts of 409 later, I was finally ready to vacuum the floors. Vacuuming always made me feel like I was in control of the Universe. Yes, that’s strange but true.

While vacuuming, I saw clumps of fur, bits of food, and small objects I couldn’t identify. When I sucked them up, all was right in my world. I could walk barefoot through my world with no fear, and walking barefoot through my world was one thing I loved and always did no matter what the season.

Usually, when I vacuumed the family room, I had to enlist help. I had to ask Iz to clean up all her “stuff.” Her stuff littered the room; however, on Sunday, there was no Iz to tap for clean up, because she had slept over a friend’s house the night before.

As I vacuumed, I picked up Barbie dolls, both naked and clothed, pencils, and magic markers. And how exactly are they “magic?” (Could someone please research that and then send me an explanatory e-mail?) On that Sunday, the rug was littered with Silly Bandz.

I liked Silly Bandz. Well, I liked them well enough to buy Iz a few hundred of them. But while vacuuming on Sunday, I had mixed feeling about them; actually, I began to hate them!

I live in a house with multiple furry creatures. I have three fluffy cats and a dog that sheds and barks a lot. While a rolling stone may gather no moss, any rubber item in my house gathered a whole lot of fur!

Usually, when I came across a Silly Bandz on the floor, I rescued it. Typically, it was twisted beyond recognition (each bracelet resembled something), and it was covered with fur. I’d pick the fur off of it, and then twist it back to what it was supposed to be.

Yesterday, I wasn’t so kind. It might have been because I was on overload, or it might have been because I was overloaded on Silly Bandz. When I saw the first one on the floor twisted and covered with fur, I had to think twice.

I turned off the vacuum. I picked up the Silly Bandz, picked off the fur, and then I untwisted it. I placed it on Iz’s desk in the pile of forgotten Silly Bandz.

By the time, I came across the fifth Silly Bandz, my “Leave No Silly Bandz Behind” policy had totally faded. I saw the twisted mess of plastic lying on the floor covered with fur. And, then I asked myself, “With 100 of these things around the house, was this one really worth saving?”

I stood there pondering. The vacuum was sucking. And, I thought “To suck it up or not?”

I sucked it up. I thought, “She has 99 other Silly Bandz!” By the way, Iz once asked me to wear a few of these; I thought they should be renamed to SuckTheCirculationOutofYou Bandz.

After I sucked up the first Silly Bandz, I felt horribly guilty. I then thought, “I am mean.” I then thought back to my meanest childhood moment that involved my sister, Julie; I wasn’t being mean to Iz at all.

I was being practical. Iz had so many Silly Bandz; I had so little time. Sucking up the twisted and furry ones was not mean at all.

Iz would always have Silly Bandz. I would know this, because I was the one who would be buying them for her. I would never have a lot of free time on the weekend; however, it was so worth sucking up some Silly Bandz every now even if it meant I had to buy them all over again. ♥