Got milk, dope soap, & more

Weekend frustrations:  Ed's varsity basketball team lost their playoff game Friday night.  I was with the girls for an Irish dancing competition a few hours away in Lake Geneva.  We were crowded around my phone waiting for Coach to send us text message updates.  I was worried that we would be scolded by hotel personnel for our screams of delight when our team hit a 3 point buzzer beater to put the game into overtime.  We lost in overtime.  I found out later that the other team had a player fall down, lose his dribble, and get back up again holding the ball.  No travel call.  Grrr.  I love this group of kids.  It was a great season.  I don't think I missed a game all season and I was super bummed to miss this one . . . and for Irish dancing no less.

Irish dancing:  I danced for 8 years growing up.  Some combination of my kids have danced for the last 9 years.  I find the subjectivity, wigs, leg tanning, makeup, and outrageous costume prices exhausting.  Neither girl danced as well as they could've.  Mini danced better Saturday, but placed lower than she did on Friday.  There were tears.  Not fun. 

Got milk?:  I sent Tank in the basement to bring up a gallon of skim milk yesterday.  He brought up an untouched, out-dated gallon of skim.  It was best by Feb 26th.  Yesterday was March 5th.  Having a second fridge in the basement is a luxury . . . until the many-gallon-of-milk-drinking kids fail at rotating the bought-with- hard-earned-cash stock of milk.  (Imagine me banging my head against the wall.) 

Ah, nothing like a fresh
gallon of cold milk . . .
except when it is over
 a week expired.  

When Reggie admitted to seeing the passed-its-prime gallon of milk down there, I wasn't sure if I should pull my hair out or make him drink a glass of it.  He was able to convince me that it had already expired by the time he noticed it before a drop of spoiled milk touched his lips.  (I really wasn't going to make anyone drink it.  Promise.  I'm frustrated - not abusive).

Missing wardrobes:  Last week I got fed up and collected all of the articles of clothing off the floor of Reggie and Tank's room.  It was almost exclusively Tank's.  Shock.  I loaded it into a laundry basket and shoved it into the trunk of the great white (former airport shuttle van).  Tank was forced to wear jeans to school.  More than once. 

I knew things were desperate when he came downstairs the other day wearing MY JEANS.  I apologize for not having a photo of that to share, but I think you should be relieved.  It wasn't pretty.  What's worse?  He didn't know that they weren't his jeans.  That's what becomes of teenage boys who aren't detail oriented and who will only wear workout pants.  They lose all track of what 'other' articles of clothing they own. 

Eddie has been searching high and low for his coveted high school basketball quarter zip sweatshirt.  I hadn't seen it.  Tank owns the same sweatshirt in a smaller size.  I remembered the wardrobe that littered Tank's floor that had recently been relocated to my trunk.  The only way it would be there is if someone mis-sorted the laundry.  It happens.  Not usually on my watch, but occasionally I recruit more clueless family members to help.  I finally dug thru the laundry basket in my car and alas, there was Ed's missing sweatshirt.  Ed rejoiced. 

Tank banged on my bathroom door this morning begging for a pair of pants to wear to school.  I was in the shower and finally gave in.  I told him where he could find his 'stuff' in my trunk.  Coach and I planned to make him earn his clothes back.  My brain is usually fried by this time of night, and I've had a headache on and off for days.  The fam (or at least those members that had completed their homework or didn't have a blog post to compose) got comfy in the family room to watch a '30 for 30' about the rivalry between NBA players John Starks and Reggie Miller.  My mind flipped into the 'on' position and I reminded Coach (who is freakishly home because it's Tuesday night and not Mon, Wed, or Thursday) that Tank needed to work to earn back his belongings. 

As I sit and type this I am inhaling the strong smell of bathroom cleaner.  Tank is upstairs scrubbing both showers.  If I never write another post, then you will know that our family perished from choking on the overwhelming scrubbing bubbles fumes when we go to sleep in a few minutes. 

Dope soap:  We often joke about Tank's lack of command of the English language.  He did have an 80% speech delay as a tot.  Not sure if that is why he occasionally mixes up words or uses a word incorrectly.  I can never remember a decent example after the fact.  This example is the exception.  In our family, thick skin is necessary.  Nothing is sacred. 

I took Tank and Eddie to the dermatologist yesterday.  Tank was asking the doctor to explain what soap he was supposed to use in the shower.  He currently was using Dove bar soap.  Everything got jumbled and the words 'dope soap' tumbled out of his mouth.  Ed was still perched on the exam table from his turn.  I really thought he was going to roll right onto the ground from laughing uncontrollably. 

Tank might frustrated the be-Jesus out of us, but lately he has been contributing quite a bit to our comic relief.  With expired milk, losing teams, unsuccessful dancing competitions, strewn about laundry, bad headaches, and missing sweatshirts, we embrace dope soap and the like.