Black Hole

I'm fairly certain I've stopped breathing. I do know I'm drooling, as my jaw dropped about as far as it can go these days, right about the time my eyes glazed over.

I waded hip deep into my son's room - apparently, his dresser and closet had that horrific Noro Virus, and vomited everywhere. Infected everything else in there, so it too vomited all over rug, beds, dresser top, window ledge....

Sucked in breath. Gave rise to white hot I think I've set my hair on fire kind of breathing. The Not Good Kind, as Fox would say.

What. The. Fuck.

What really gets my goat?

He is never in there.

He goes once in the am, to get clothing (that is, if he's not dressing off of the Great Moving Clothing Sculptured Blue Chair) and perhaps once at night, for pjs.

I'd like to know what in hell goes on it there to make this much mess, with so few visits to this room! The loft, where he occasionally starts off sleeping (do make note of the starts off) remains more organized than the Black Hole Of Death, as he refers to his room.

He hates it not, mind, because it's blue, or that it has bunkbeds, not because it's girly - it is not - but because it's upstairs.

Okay. I can accept that he'd prefer to sleep on the same floor as me; but really? We're a ceiling apart, and honestly, that's not even my issue - seriously, what the hell is he doing to make this kind of disaster? And when? He's never in there!

The bath?

Please.

He's a guy. Or at least a budding one.

His bath should look like the sty that it is. I give high marks for the "hung up" towel, as it is, indeed, off the floor, not draped over the bed. Boy's sinks should be filled with partially brushed toothpaste slugs, the over-crust of Listerine kid's flouride rinse, and foamy dried soap rings - hey, it's living proof he's a, brushed his teeth, and b, washed his hands, after he's used a toilet normally seen in rotting row houses in Greek college life.

I'm totally okay with his bathroom, aka The Swamp.

Yes, the toilet needs a good scrubbing (which may induce my gag reflex, but hey, at least he's used it - there's a kid down the street who prefers to go Al Natural, if you get what I mean), Spiderman body wash oozes ever so slowly towards the final goal of the drain, which won't allow anything to pass, as the army men in there are doing a fabulous job blocking it.

I'm not even questioning the Victoria Secret Catalogue I found, as it's been drawn on.

No, not in a creepy way - he's given most of the models mustaches and beards, horn's on their heads, and hair on their over-air-brushed bodies.

Since it's right next to the Ranger Rick's mag, I'm gathering I've nothing to worry about, til the pen ceases to show up in the VS mag.

It's The Room. My Inner Mom Voice had plenty of time being an Outer-Mom voice because really? What the fuck does he do?! There's hangers trailing off the ladder to the bed - which is on it's side, FYI, on the lower bed (?? yeah, I don't get that either), all the books are in some random order, either on one bed, the other, the floor, on in the closet - which is great that something is in there, as the fucking clothing is not!

It's all over the beds, the floor, piled on his desk, overflowing from the basket I'd not only neatly folded and organized for being put away, but heaved up there yesterday - YESTERDAY! He didn't even go up there!

To top it all off, his goddamn hamster, Cookie, is anything but. He's a GIANT pain in the ass. He's noisy. And smells funny - that lady, Kristy, at PetSmart, who swore that this spray kept him smelling fresh? she LIED - he likes to eat on the run - that does explain the sunflower seed pods on his floor, along with oodles of this fluff I didn't originally recognize.

I'm drawing a veil over the disgustingly rotted sippy cup I found up there - normally, I'll wash and save anything (if you read My Life is Shit? you already know this) - it hit the trash without a moment's hesitation.

For the record? All you "Thoughtful Relatives" who feel the need to overwhelm my son (ME) with games that have a zillion parts, or (God help me) shit to paint, with fucking glitter in it (GLITTER! I swear, they have kids, I know what I'm sending: 9000 piece puzzles, bead kits, art supplies loaded with glitter not in the pens, but in the big containers, ensuring loads of vaccing in every orifice of your home) just realize, that revenge is a bitch.

I've stepped on lego bits, one thumb tack, and puzzled over a piece to something....I gave up, and shoved it in a drawer - which is where all of his clothes are going next.

I thought I'd take a moment to calm down.

Wait until noon, when it's okay to have a belt of vodka, and wade in again.

Then, I'll have a plan of attack.

One: clothes up, into drawers, or thrown in closet. With hangers. Maybe they'll hang themselves. God know's I'm close enough to that.

Tow:Vacuum floor, ignoring noises made by implement not expecting to suck K-nex magnets off the floor, along with lego bits, dried up gummy worms, Cracker Jacks, seed pods, fluff and the ubiquitous dog fur - or whatever else it comes across under the bed - I'm not looking there first. I figure, if I don't look, I'll be less likely to swear. Can't say the same for vac, though.

Three: belt another vodka, in celebration I came out alive.

And that since he's at school?

So has my child.