The wind was howling and the lights were flickering last night while I was trying to enjoy the delicious James Franco in "Tristan and Isolde." I was intently following the story - okay - that's a big honkin' lie - I was actually barely following the story and watching closely as his gorgeous mouth puckered and his brown teddy bear eyes brimmed with heartfelt tears. Anyhoo, I was trying to concentrate on the movie but the impending storm outside my windows kept distracting me. Not wanting to be alone in the dark (I figured it was a safe bet that my power'd go kaput) I lit a large Harvest Yankee Candle - which smells so good and is a really pretty orangey color.
Now I can concentrate on studying the "movie." The dryer beeps letting me know that the second load of Hanes Tagless Tees and Polo Man Panties are dried and ready to be folded. I'm a bit aggravated. Which is not too surprising considering it's my mood of choice as of late. I push back in my recliner,flop my legs straight out, grab the leather arm and fling my feet down as hard as I can (it's a hard recliner to un-recline) and watch as the cute side animal loses the tray he's holding along with my can of soda, and the half-melted candle.
There is orange candle wax all over the leather sofa - over the arm (but it missed me!) and down the side. More wax is oozing down between the cushions of the loveseat and, nestled between the two pieces of furniture, spattered on the white carpet is a massive amount of orange goo and a half a can of poured out Coca-cola.
"Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" I yell and pulled off my tee shirt. I'm not sure why I did this. It was instinct. Which was odd. Who else, in mid-crisis, would strip down to their skivvies? Anyway, I use my shirt to wipe the soda off the sofas and then start to rub the wax off. Wax on, Wax off.
Getting up, harvest goo under my short nails, I run to the laundry room and grab what I can find: two old towels and a handful of Lost Soulmate socks. I'm half-naked, scrubbing and crying and moaning and cursing. After abouta half hour of scrubbing, I get most of the wax off the couches.
Since we're still out of sorts from the water damage we had last month - the couch is pushed up to make an L-shape with the loveseat. I try to move the couch to get to the majority of the coke and wax stain that's still sitting on the floor. I manage to pop the recliner out four times and still, can't budge the damn thing. So I try to move the loveseat. Nope. Won't move either. At this point, I'm cursing La-Z-Boy, Home Depot, Yankee Candle and my own stupidity.
I find some Bissell Carpet cleaner and a clean shirt. And Phoebe cowering on the stairs.
Most of the coke came out of the carpet - but the orange splotch with corresponding dots - still there - mocking me.
I sit down, sweaty from cleaning and scrubbing and call Harry: "When're you coming home?"
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I covered the couch, loveseat, carpet, frog butler, fan remote and my shirt in candle wax and Coke."
"Somehow it's your fault," I tell him.
"I figured," he said back and then sighed.