Foxy Writer Chick

SNAFU is a military acronym for Situation Normal: All Fouled Up.

In other words, a perfect descriptor for day-to-day life.

A couple weeks ago, my college-aged son invited nine of his closest friends over for the weekend. Yeah, you read that correctly. NINE. WTH?

These would become our first official overnight guests in our new house since moving to an adjacent state from where Jake had grown up.

And while they are all young men of nineteen and twenty, I still wanted our place to look its best. I’m Type-A+ when it comes to keeping my house neat and presentable.

And so, Sunday rolled around and the sausage fest was to arrive at noon.

Everything was set.

And then my husband called. He needed a ride home from work.

As I got ready to leave the house, I considered running the dishwasher.

Then I changed my mind figuring Jake might eat a bowl of cereal before his friends arrived, and then the dirty dish would sit in the sink while the dishwasher runs its cycle.

I figured I’d run it when I returned and all would be well with my carefully cleaned world.

So, I went to get hubby and returned home to find…

A swarm of flies descending upon the front door and porch. As if a thin veneer of manure had been painted on it and they couldn’t get enough.

And…

the dishwasher exploding with bubbles. Jake thought he’d help out by running the dishwasher with DAWN liquid dish washing liquid.

Had my hair just exploded into flames, I couldn’t have been more surprised.

Or torn. Do I attend to the bubbles belching forth from the dishwasher across the new hardwood floor?

Or do I attend to the swarm of flies infiltrating the house every time a guest arrived?

My husband couldn’t stop belly-laughing long enough to give me his two-cents.

I, of course, saw no humor in these poorly-timed crises. This was time for action. Not reaction.

And then he reminded me that all this was all an improvement over the previous Sunday in which Day One of an Intestinal Pearl Harbor had just announced its first volley as it conscripted me into a battle that would rage for five days, and require two separate trips for blood work as well as me collecting four test tubes of stool sample. Gag!

And then I realized that, perhaps, the flies had heard about my own personal shit-a-palooza, but in the way of SNAFU’s, they got the memo a tad too late.

For us, Situation Normal, indeed.

Thanks for stopping by!

xoxo,

Susan J. Anderson

Foxy Writer Chick