Let me set the scene:  I’m doing laundry (which I try to do as often as possible because folding is my favorite thing), and it’s Noah’s turn.  I pull his clothes out of the washer (top load – don’t judge) and as soon as it’s empty, I do a double take when I see this:

W.T.F?

Now you’re getting a closer look at it than I did, and mine was a quick glance.  I swear my knees got wobbly, my bowels locked up, I think my heart stopped or maybe it sped up, and a scream threatened to let loose.  A life flashed before my eyes: Giving birth, his first steps on his birthday, his first day of kindergarten, his first flight with Gramma and Poppa, finally trusting the water, his curls that everyone wants to touch, his voice changing.  And now this.  This.  He’s thirteen for fuck’s sake!  Terrified, I took a second look, reached down, and with a squinchy face I pulled it out from under the drum or whatever it is.

AND breathe

A rubber glove from his science class.  Okay, so he stole it.  Big Ef’en deal.  At least he’s not stealing virginity.  Gross.

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It was about 5:30 and Noah and I were headed towards my car.  It was chilly.  I was wearing a lightweight long-sleeve shirt with a hooded sweatshirt zipped up three-quarters of the way and Noah too wore a long-sleeved shirt with a hoodie zipped all the way up.  I got a text from Hot Joe telling me he had something crazy/scary to tell me, asking if he should text it or wait until I got home.  Apparently whatever he had to tell me was not for Noah’s ears.

“I’ll call you from the car.”  Who wants to wait when there’s bluetooth?

Turns out, Joe was cooking dinner when he heard someone faintly knocking at the door, almost like a tapping.  His first inclination was that it was 9-year-old Trevor from next door who either rings the doorbell or knocks softly; nothing in between.  Then he remembered that just an hour before when he got home Trevor was leaving, so he knew Noah wasn’t going to be home.  He thought this all while walking to the door, and all while still holding a very sharp knife, which he put on the table at the very last-minute.

When he opened the door, Joe was looking down, expecting a kid, but his eyes were immediately drawn upwards to a tall man, in his 50s, wearing a pair of jeans, a white shirt with a blue logo and nothing on his feet.  He was gray-haired and scruffy on his face.

Joe asked, “Yeah?”

The guy responded, “Can I come in?”  As if Joe was just going to let him in and offer him a beer.

 Joe said simply, “No.  What do you want?”

“I’m gonna need to sleep here tonight.”

Here’s where I interjected in the story:  “Did you say, ‘Sure!  There’s a blanket over there and chili on the stove!”?

Joe said, “No, I told him, ‘The fuck you are!  Get the fuck out of here.  Now.’”

I again interjected to ask if he smelled like he had been drinking, to which Joe responded, “I couldn’t tell.  All I could smell was the beer I was drinking.”  Touche.

The guy turned around and staggered to the gate, fumbling to get it open.  He turned back to Joe and said, “I can’t get it open.”  Annoyed, Joe opened the gate for him, practically pushed him out and stood on his toes to watch him walk down the path away from everyone, bumping up against our neighbor’s fence twice.  Then he thought about it and quickly put on his shoes, didn’t bother tying them, and ran outside to see where the guy went.  He was totally gone.  Vanished into thin air.

We talked about how crazy that was and wondered what happened to the guy, and hung up the phone at which point Noah said, “So someone knocked on our door and asked if he could sleep over?”  When I asked how he knew he responded, “You asked Dad if he offered him a blanket and some chili.”  We really do need to stick to locking our bedroom door and talking in the closet.

When we pulled onto the main street of our complex, as the road turned we noticed a lot of neighbors standing on the corner and two police cars blocking in a car with a guy sitting in it.  As we turned the corner to our street we saw two police men slowly taking down a man in a pair of jeans and a white shirt with a blue logo on it.  He was barefoot.  We quickly pulled into our garage, honking and honking like annoying neighbors who honk and honk when they pull into their garage (it was fun to be that person for just a moment), and finally Noah jumped out of the car and ran upstairs to get Joe, who ran past me towards the cops to let them know about the guy knocking on our door.  He asked where we live, and when Joe pointed in our general direction the cop said, “Oh!  Those are nice!”  Thanks officer.  We like them but really they aren’t nice enough to require an exclamation point.  Seriously.

The neighbors and we oohed and ahhed and wondered who called the police and why and bonded over the drama of what happened to us and the other unknown victim and in the end we all returned to our boring homes to eat dinner, watch T.V. and wait for the next loud argument, drunken fool or strange man inviting himself in for a sleepover.

A little excitement once in awhile is a great thing.

The past month or so has been busy for me.  It’s been great, good, stressful, sad and wonderful.  I’ve been kept busy – good or bad – as wife, mother, wife and mother, daughter, sister, granddaughter (although he thinks niece), mother of pups and a cat, cheerleader, job scare supporter, transcriptionist, Scentsy rep and all-around pretty anxious person.

Hot Joe says I have too much on my plate.  Again.  What?  Please.  Quit saying that.  I can handle a teenager with his stuff while trying to deal with high-maintenance Scentsy clients and still find time to enjoy my husband.  Have I run?  No, I haven’t.  I simply haven’t wanted to so I couldn’t find the time.  Would it help if I did?  I would give it a 100% chance that the endorphins released would make me feel better, but see there’s one little thing:  While running I get hot.  When I get hot I start to sweat.  When I sweat I itch.  You may recall a few months ago I had an itch.  Well it’s back in full-force and it’s being called a “neuropsychiatric” itch.  I had allergy testing.  There’s no reason for it to be there.  Actually, the rash itself is only on my back, from the nape of my neck all the way down to the dimples.  My arms are better.  My legs are horrific.  It feels like I have awful terrible uncontrollable dry skin and I scratch like a crazed woman, digging into my skin and opening sores that then become infected and my skin is bruised and when I sleep at night it hurts to roll over with all of the sores and I get blood all over the sheets.

Too much on my plate?  No.  I just need a bigger plate.

Apple added for size perspective.

Here’s my plan:  I finally spoke to my favorite most amazing counselor ever who now owns a Wellness Center and therefore is not covered under my insurance and she made some suggestions.

I started running again yesterday and not once did I reach back and scratch.  I just focused on the music, the dogs, my breathing, my stance.  Did I run today?  No, I did not.  To tell you the truth I wrapped myself up on the couch and lay there scratching and dozing.  Ahhh, the good life.  My legs are pretty damned sore from yesterday’s run, but that’s never a good excuse.

I’m going to tell all new Scentsy Hostesses the way I work.  The rules of the game.  I’ll explain what they get based on what I sell, I’ll explain the benefits of selling themselves, I’ll explain what happens if someone from her party books a party, and then I’ll tell her that I’m leaving her a catalogue and will give her the tentative totals before leaving but I will email her the totals that night.  The following day, by 5:00, I will expect an email back from her telling me what half-price and free items she would like.  Then I will close the party so none of my customers (and her friends) will have to wait.  Too many girls are saying, “I have friends.  Can you hold it open?”  Nope.  Your friends suck.  None of them call, text, email or go on my website to contact me.  They don’t want Scentsy.  The end.

Wait – what if nobody ever wants a party again?  Let’s hope I start getting more return customers.

And as for the kid – the teenager and everything that comes with that whole package-he is a learning curve in and of himself.  Hot Joe and I are lately often in the bedroom, door locked, in the closet, door closed, whispering, coming up with plans, making decisions, arguing a bit, agreeing in other ways, hearing each other out, leaving, thinking it through, returning to our spot, making our compromises and shaking on it.  Or making out.  Whatever.  Then we converge on the poor kid and lay it on the line, letting him know this is how it’s going to work.  Often we make the wrong decision and we admit our errors later.  And sometimes – sometimes we get it right.