Home » New Year’s Eve Mystery: A Story About A Bitch and Her Broom. . .

New Year’s Eve Mystery: A Story About A Bitch and Her Broom. . .

So, we have a lot of catching up to do. . .And I own that mess.  And I’m hoping I can clean it all up. . .

Anyway, speaking of cleaning up. . .

I actually like like like some of the women I met at the neighbor’s playgroup nearly a year ago.  And when the weather is good we meet at the local “tot lot” for lunch.

The tot lot is a completely enclosed area full of big toy monstrosities I’d never purchase for my own children’s use and enjoyment.

SO. . .it’s pretty cool.

Kids can play and eat a lunch covered in different dirt, while I converse with a lot of really smart women.

The rule of the tot lot is you need to respect it.  Clean up after yourself.

After a few visits, I realized Mac and a few of the other kids were throwing mulch and dirt whilly-nilly with the tot lot provided shovels, etc.

Adorable Jackasses.

Yet, after their dirtfest, I was lacking the resources necessary to have us clean it up properly.

So I decided I’d donate a broom and dust pan to the tot lot.

Least I could do right?

One fine day, I loaded up both overly exhausted children in the stroller and marched them towards Canton ACE Hardware to get a broom and dust pan.

While we were there hanging out with Stanley – the awesome resident orange tabby cat – it occurred me that I HATED the broom we had so I should donate the OLD broom and get myself one I liked.

Done deal.

That night, I placed the old broom and a new dust pan in the utility closet on the main floor thinking we’d be back to the tot lot in no time.

Except we weren’t.

Teddy’s naps and Mac’s typical three-year old behavior kept us away for weeks.

So the broom remained tucked in the utility closet, snugged in close to the air handling unit. . .

This apparently drove my Husband nearly out of his skull.

Until one day, he lost it.

“I don’t want this stupid broom in this closet!”  He shouted as he threw it down the basement steps.  “I don’t want anything near this air handling unit!  Come on, Deni.”

“Well, you have all those air filters in the closet all the time.  Would it be so bad to keep a broom there for a bit longer?”

“I don’t want a filthy broom that sweeps up cat litter and stuff in our air handling unit.  You keep telling me you’ll take it to the tot lot but you NEVER DO!”

Fair enough.

“I haven’t been to the tot lot for a number of weeks for a lot of reasons.  I’m sorry you’re upset over the broom.  It’s just a broom.”

And if it bothered you that much, why can’t you take it to the tot lot when you walk the dog or something?  It’s a block from our house!

“It’s just a broom that’s covered in filth and I don’t want it in this closet.  EVER!”

“Fine.” I whispered as I surveyed its position at the bottom of our basement stairs with squinty eyes.

I will not move this broom.

I’ll sacrifice the tot lot.

I will not move this broom.

Even though I’m the one up and down these steps 87 times a day. . .I WILL NOT MOVE THIS BROOM!

IF YOU DIDN’T LIKE WHERE THE BROOM WAS, YOU SHOULD FIND A NEW DAMNED PLACE TO PUT IT!  SHOULD YOU DETERMINE THROWING IT DOWN THE BASEMENT STAIRS IS APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR FOR YOUR SONS TO WITNESS, THEN BY ALL MEANS, LET’S LEAVE THE BROOM LYING ACROSS THE BASEMENT STAIRS WHERE THEIR MOTHER CAN BREAK HER FOOL NECK GETTING TO THE LAUNDRY TO WASH YOUR UNGRATEFUL ASS WEARING GAWDFORSAKEN SMARTWOOL SOCKS.

I.  WILL. DIE.  BEFORE.  I.  MOVE.  THIS.  BROOM.

Ahhhhhnnnddd. . .

You know I’m a “bit” of a neat freak.  . .

Just enough that a broom lying at the bottom of the stairs will cause my eye to involuntarily twitch after about 45 seconds.

Move the broom.  Move the broom.

Don’t you DARE move the broom.  

After 2 hours, I was having heart palpitations.  The following day I drank an ungodly amount of whiskey.

Move the broom.  

No.  Way.  

My Husband is persistent but he’s not overly stubborn or sadistic so I kept holding out hope he’d take the high road and move the broom before it killed me (in any number of ways:  tripping over it. . .panic attack. . .you know).  Yet, there the broom remained. . .

A broom that was once at the heart of a kind gesture on my part was suddenly transformed into nothing but an object manifestation of contempt and frustration.

And while I had the power to simply move the broom, I couldn’t.  I.  Just.  Could.  Not.

He KNOWS this broom is killing me.  He should move the broom.  If he cares at all about my physical and mental health, he’ll move the broom.  If he cares at all about being a responsible model for his sons, he’ll move the broom.  

Of COURSE he cares!  

Move the broom!

He has watched a lot of Dateline Murder Mysteries lately. . .

MOVE.  THE.  BROOM.  STUBBORN.  BITCH.  

Anyone care to speculate on the fate of the broom?  Who actually lost err moved it?

 

PS I added my most searched tags to this post. . .WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!  haha