I found my sleeping bag today, which is a really big deal. As much as I was anticipating sleeping under the stars wrapped up tightly in a sheet during a Montana summer snowstorm, I figure that I owe it to dad and my lack of health insurance to not get sick.
I live in a dirty house that is cleaned appallingly infrequently. Thank god I have my own bathroom (and sisters) because I've heard that men miss, often. Well this quality translates to our kitchen trashcan. I had dragged out the vacuum cleaner (that drone!) and sucked up what onion skins and tomato stems I could, but old grapes and wilted greens of weeks past had melded into the floor leaving dark, tacky residue--at least we eat well. That required hands and knees and heavy scrubbing. Good thing I was already sweaty and in my running clothes.
Oh! But the sleeping bag!
Well two Mardi Gras' past, I accused my little sister (who will be a frequent player in this blog) of walking off with my Mountain Hardware since I couldn't find it anywhere after putting away all the blankets our guests had used during that five day blur of bad hygiene and questionable decisions. She blamed it on her best friend, Kasey Munson. Regardless, it was gone. For two years. Until I jammed that vacuum cleaner back into an overstuffed closet of junk. Lo and behold a stuff sack slowly rolls out and that familiar purple winked out.
I guess I should vacuum more.
(Score: 1 alumni mention (besides family), 1 product mention, 1 literary allusion)