Mom Enforces Hygeine; Hilarity Ensues

Given my lack of inspiration for this blog as of late, I decided to ask my friend and fellow blogger, Annie, for her favourite stories of my childhood. She picked, among others, the Hygeine Wars.

I know what you're thinking, and no, I was not an unclean kid.

Well. Not usually. Not abnormally, anyway.

My hygeine habits are not what we're here to discuss, okay? >.>

Moving steadily onward -- For the better part of my childhood years, my oldest brother and my mom were engaged in an epic battle of cleanliness. It was a constant war, but my brother had the greater ammo.

"John, brush your teeth."

"In a minute."

"John, take a shower."

"In a minute."

"John, do your laundry."

"In a minute."

By employing the "in a minute" technique, John could weasel his way out of almost anything. It didn't work out so well for me.

"Anna, clean your room."

"In a minute."

"NOW!"

But I digress.

There was one thing that this tactic would not work on, even for John. And that was his smelly, God-awful, ozone-depleting shoes. John's shoes were a matter of public health. They were feared by children and small animals. The smell permeated through the house even as they sat by the back door.

Mom tried everything. She washed his shoes. The smell persevered. She bought him thicker, sweat-obsorbier socks. The smell persevered. She bought him new shoes. The smell, once more, persevered.

The house became unlivable. Mom decided more drastic measures were in order.

John would have to do something.

From that moment on, John's shoes were moved to the garage. Every day when he came home, he had to take off his shoes there and then walk the short path to the house barefoot in rain, shine, snow, hurricane, whatever.

This lasted all of a week.

"John, take those shoes out to the garage."

"In a minute."

"NOWWWW!" *insert rabid Mom growl*

My stepdad decided it was time to take action. He bravely ventured into the laundry porch and gathered up John's intense biohazard - I mean, shoes - and carried them at arm's length to the garage. But that was not the end of it, oh no, because when Lary feels the need to get involved, shit just got serious.

He threw them away. Every. Single. Pair.

John, of course, thinking his "in a minute" technique had worked, did not realize this until he was getting ready to head to school the next day.

"Mom, do you know where my shoes are?"

"In a minute."

"Lary?"

"In a minute."

And that marked the end of the Hygeine Wars. For the most part. John learned that "in a minute" doesn't always work, and Mom learned to let Lary handle John.

Of course, that didn't manage to quell the new war that occured when Lary realized he couldn't stand John's tattered jean bottoms trailing behind him, pinned him down, and cut them off with a pocket knife as John screamed on the floor.

But well, that's another story, isn't it?