Every member of my family has berated MJ for her insistence on forwarding chain-letter emails to us. In pressing send, the burden of insta-death/un-requited love/unintentional assassination of cute puppies/eradication of sunshine safely clears off her conscious and forwards onto us. After several responses in ALL CAPS (the on-line equivalent to shouting), she has learned that we are unappreciative of her middle school surveys and emoticon-laden poems. Thus, MJ has an unsatiated appetite for random facts and data that are learned through the completion and forwarding of such spam. A clever girl, that MJ, she instead created a survey-based game to be played around the Christmas tree. With the possibility of competition and winning, we were all happy to forego our strict NO EMAIL SURVEY policy and engage MJ in her “Crazy Christmas Cobanza”.
Quite a different Crazy Cobanza took place the day after Christmas, a Crazy Cleaning Cobanza. My dad, with the muscles rapidly atrophying in non-weight bearing leg, turned into Hitler’s lost Third Reich Captain. Completely disregarding the fact that we were all on hands and knees washing and scrubbing, he barked commands at us as if we were obstinate Marine Privates that didn’t want to break a nail. Sister Dancing Queen complained that her initial job of cleaning up the Christmas tree left her smelling like decaying organic matter, otherwise referred to as “ass”. When DQ petitioned said militant father for a more posh, less smelly job he responded with a brusque, “KJD2 smells like ass too.” Such sensitivity would make Mussolini proud.
Two hours and too much grumpiness from our temporarily disabled elder later, the house was sparkling, without a sign of the preceding holiday to be found. The two middle sisters smelled of ass while MJ and I smelled of Clorox and my Nazi father returned to his normal, low-key self. And yet, despite the raging backache that resulted from two solid hours of bent-over-manual-labor, I would still take Crazy Clean-ups over chain letters of any kind.
Quite a different Crazy Cobanza took place the day after Christmas, a Crazy Cleaning Cobanza. My dad, with the muscles rapidly atrophying in non-weight bearing leg, turned into Hitler’s lost Third Reich Captain. Completely disregarding the fact that we were all on hands and knees washing and scrubbing, he barked commands at us as if we were obstinate Marine Privates that didn’t want to break a nail. Sister Dancing Queen complained that her initial job of cleaning up the Christmas tree left her smelling like decaying organic matter, otherwise referred to as “ass”. When DQ petitioned said militant father for a more posh, less smelly job he responded with a brusque, “KJD2 smells like ass too.” Such sensitivity would make Mussolini proud.
Two hours and too much grumpiness from our temporarily disabled elder later, the house was sparkling, without a sign of the preceding holiday to be found. The two middle sisters smelled of ass while MJ and I smelled of Clorox and my Nazi father returned to his normal, low-key self. And yet, despite the raging backache that resulted from two solid hours of bent-over-manual-labor, I would still take Crazy Clean-ups over chain letters of any kind.
2 comments:
I was more like a quarterback (not Hitler)masterfully brining the team down field toward the ultimate goal. No, not a touchdown but a clean first floor. I am still scared to death to hobble upstairs to see that potential disaster!!
im gonna go ahead and call you brett favre then.
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