I spent all day Sunday (like…an hour) cleaning my kitchen floor. Why, you ask? WELL I’LL TELL YOU.

Welcome to Jen’s blog where she does all the talking and grammar doesn’t matter.

You see, my dishwasher has had this awful smell as of late, so as I emptied the questionably clean dishes, I decided to run it on empty using only soap. Except it seemed to me that dishwasher detergent wouldn’t be quite enough to handle this *ahem* smell, so I had the GRAND IDEA to use dish soap. Naturally, I thought, “Dish soap smells good. That should fix it right up with a quick rinse.”

Some of you who are more experienced at life are laughing at me right now.

I guess I don’t have to tell you what happened.

I started the dishwasher with dish soap and walked away, because I DO WHAT I WANT and ain’t no dishwasher gonna make me stay in the kitchen. (Even food doesn’t have that power.) Being overly domestic, I decided to move on to folding laundry in the bedroom because it’s been almost two months since I washed the clothes and someone should really get on all this housework. About ten minutes in to balling up my clothes and tossing them into random drawers, I heard my kid from the other room shouting, “EEEEELP!” Which immediately sent me into a panic because he’s a toddler, so he’s either A. silent because he’s doing something I don’t want him to do or B. Crying because I closed the refrigerator door and WHY GOD WHY. There is no option C.

I ran into the kitchen, fearing an intruder or that he had dropped the last of my chocolate in the trash disposal, but neither happened. Standing on a chair in the middle of the kitchen was my son (he’d been trying to reach leftover Easter candy–so my guess was close), SURROUNDED BY A FOOT OF BUBBLES COVERING EVERY INCH OF THE FLOOR.

In my stupidity, I realize now I didn’t take a picture. Let me draw a reenactment for you.

Naturally, I burst out laughing because OMG IS THIS FOR REAL?

I shouted at my poor, stranded candy thief, “STAY THERE! I WILL SAVE YOU!” I snagged a towel from the bathroom floor, where I keep them in case of emergencies such as this. Bolting through the house, dodging toy cars and plastic Easter eggs that continue to multiply, I laughed at how my puny towel didn’t stand a chance against ALL THE DAMN BUBBLES. I then realized I am David and the dishwasher’s bubbles are my Goliath, and sigh, this disgusting, week-old towel is my slingshot. But there was a precedent for victory, so I HELD OUT HOPE.

I attempted to clear a path to the tot, who was still shouting, “‘ELP! ‘ELP!” because obviously he’s British. It hit me that I am sorely unprepared for life and the one towel that was still kind of wet from yesterday had been soaked through after only three seconds of battle. These were no ordinary bubbles. They were warrior bubbles, trained from bubble-infancy to KILL CLEAN KILL.

Leaving my child yet again to the dangers of the kitchen, I pulled all the towels from my linen closet and shrugged, “I’m probably not going to shower tomorrow anyway.”

Eventually I made it to my helpless son, who then realized that he shouldn’t have been afraid at all because THESE ARE FUCKING BUBBLES and YAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYY!

In a split second, he turned on me with a scowl that would have made Gollum proud, “MY BUBBLES. NO, MAMA.” With a quickness only a two-year old can possess, he opened the dishwasher and when the door fell down and bubbles poured out, Baby Benedict Stayrook screamed with evil glee, “BUBBLESSSSSSSSS! PRECIOUSSSSSSS!”

Okay maybe not that last part, but seriously, you should have seen his face.

Exactly this.

I tried to fend off both toddler and bubbles but I was sorely outnumbered and with dwindling resources. Three towels were down for the count and with only two left and still half the kitchen to go, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I was overrun. It was time to make my final stand.

And that’s why we didn’t go to the park on Sunday.

In fact, I’m writing this blog post from a bubble prison inside Kitchen Atlantis. It tastes AWFUL in here.

P.S. – I later found cleaner, made specifically for dishwashers, under my sink. Really, I think the guilty party in all of this is my husband for not better informing me about our cleaning products.

The conversation starts like any other; I’m having a pleasant discussion and then, BAM. Scumbag brain strikes, erasing my short-term memory like 18 minutes of incriminating tape.

The other person stands there, waiting for a response, and I’ve completely blanked on what to say next. I don’t even remember the topic at hand. We were talking about cake. Or was it car troubles? Or their children? Oh, they’re going to be mad if I suddenly forgot we were talking about their children. No, it was cake. I definitely remember cake being involved.

Nothing comes out of my mouth, even though my brain runs through a list of thousands of things to say. But I can’t read the matrix code my brain produces, so I look about, frantic for any sort of clue. And I then I just want to eat cake.

Obviously frustrated by my lacking social skills, the other person crosses their arms, not impressed by my dumb look, crazed eyes, or the drool forming in the corners of my slightly agape mouth.

It’s as if my brain simply falls out of my head. It sits on the floor, staring at me, utterly pissed off that I am so incompetent. Like it’s my fault my brain decided to roll out of my head. Who warns you about these things? I then realize that science fiction has not prepared me for life. Or at least I would think that if I still had a brain.

And since I no longer have a brain, I don’t know what to do next.

My brain’s frontal lobe shouts at me. “PICK ME UP, ASSHOLE. IT’S COLD OUT HERE.”

All I can mumble in response is, “Hodor.”

The pink, squishy mess on the floor tries to hop back into my skull, but it doesn’t have legs, so it flops about like a fish, cursing me in several different languages. None of which it gets to use regularly because it inhabits my body and damn that sweaty meat bag.

After well over 12 parsecs, the ground shifts, tossing my brain back into the home it so loathes. Once inside, it screams, “LUNCH, YOU MORON. They asked if you wanted to go to lunch!”

Lunch! But the other person is gone and I have to eat my sad lunch alone while my brain berates me for being a shining example of social anxiety.

I’m hungry.

Apparently this blog has become a sitcom about my brain and me. I expect a phone call from NBC any moment now.

I should really cut back on the caffeine.