I started out with the best intentions. It was Monday morning, after all, and Dear Daughter was up till midnight finishing her homework. You might be asking yourself why she didn't start her homework sooner than 7pm on Sunday evening. Good question. Likely because she's in 8th grade, and I trust her to be able to organize herself when it comes to that kind of thing. Maybe I'm misguided, but that's how it is.
So because she was short on sleep and I wanted to be nice, I volunteered to iron her khaki uniform pants. The dog and I went down to the basement to plug in the iron, and I noticed the drum kit. Surrounded by gear, like amps and mic stands and a small mixing board. Huh. Wonder how long that's been there.
Now, it's not as unusual as it might be, since the Dear Husband is in two bands. It's just been, like, a week and a half since one of them rehearsed at our house. Which means the drum kit has been set up for at least a week and a half. Huh. Hadn't noticed it till now. The basement is big, and all, and the drum kit was pushed up against the pool table, but still. It's hard to miss.
Any good story has conflict, right? So here's mine. I was ironing away when I smelled the distinctive aroma of dog poop. Seems Puppy doesn't like to do his bidness in the rain. We live in Seattle. He needs to get over that. I threw him out back (not literally) and went on a poop hunt. I found it BEHIND the drum kit and UNDER the pool table, which is why, at 8 am on a Monday morning, I was crawling over rock and roll detritus to scoop the poops from under the pool table. Almost got scalped by a cymbal.
And from that I know that it's going to be a good week, because, really, there's nowhere to go but up.