Chaos Channel
My parents travel to California frequently to help take care of my 97-year-old grandmother, which means that they sometimes miss important things back here at home, like the one day in April where it didn’t sleet, snow, or blow hurricane-force wind.
As luck would have it, some cabinets that they ordered months ago were scheduled to be installed during one of their recent California absences. I only live a few minutes away from their house, so my mom asked if I would come over one morning last week to let the cabinet installer in and answer any questions he might have. Of course I said yes.
Being in my parents’ house is an absolute pleasure. My mom is an immaculate housekeeper, and my step-dad is a former salesman at Burgan’s Furniture. They appreciate quality and they understand comfort, and their house is so pristine that it feels like a spa.
There’s a story I grew up hearing, that when my mom was a kid, her parents asked her to go out to the back patio and spend some time cleaning the metal grill. Not only did she do that, but—as the legend goes—she also found some leftover white paint and re-painted the legs of the grill so she could make it look brand spanking new.
“If you want a job done right, just give it to Gloria,” the saying goes—and it remains true to this day. Sadly, her daughter did not inherit her penchant for meticulousness.
Whereas her bathroom faucets sparkle like those found in the water closets of Kensington Palace, mine are splattered with layers of dried toothpaste. Where her windows are clear and streak-free, mine are smeared with popsicle juice and paw prints. For every throw blanket draped artfully across the back of her couch, there are ten strewn haphazardly across the entirety of my living room floor.
There are no hard water stains in her toilet bowls from well water that is a million percent iron. There is no dog hair clinging to her couch cushions. And you better believe there are no tennis shoes left on her kitchen counter. Her house is clean. It’s calm. It’s civilized.
I have to remind myself that this is not a fair comparison. At my mom’s house, little kids, teenagers and animals are not running amok at all hours of the day. No one is deliberately hitting golf balls against her garage door or sneaking the filthy outdoor cat inside for a snuggle. We’re running two very different shows here, and mine airs exclusively on the Chaos Channel.
Case in point: while I was out running errands a few weeks ago, 14-year-old Jane texted me to say that our dog, Maggie, had brought a dead bunny into the house.
“A dead bunny?” I texted back, unable to process what I was reading. Not only have I never seen a bunny anywhere near our house, but also Maggie is not one to murder small animals and then drop them at our feet as a trophy.
“Well, half a bunny,” Jane clarified. “The bottom half.” She sent me a picture of the severed lower half of a bunny that was now resting on my dining room floor.
My gag reflex kicked in as I tried to imagine how a little bunny had met such a gruesome end on our property, and right before Easter of all times. (We’re hoping it wasn’t the Easter Bunny, but please let me know if your baskets didn’t get filled and I will send you a refund).
Jane assured me that she had cleaned up the half-a-bunny, and we both agreed that sweet little Maggie couldn’t possibly have been the murderer—just the gruesome messenger.
I can guarantee you that my parents have never had half a bunny dropped anywhere near their dining room. Such a thing is unthinkable—about the furthest thing from “spa-like home experience” you can imagine.
Maybe “clean and calm" is just not in the cards for me. Maybe a never-ending loop of the Chaos Channel is my destiny. Can anyone find the remote?