Goat Heads & Dollar tree Remodeling

  


So my sister’s husband had a stroke. They lived in Florida. Sunny beaches, warm water, paradise.

I was ready to pack up and move down to help her. I mean, twist my arm—“Oh no, I guess I’ll have to suffer through margaritas on the beach.”

But no. The kids moved them to… Tahoka, Texas.

Tahoka. If you don’t know where that is—don’t worry. No one does.

They moved into her son’s little house, Six people already live there. SIX and it’s under remodeling. That lasted two weeks before even the drywall started crying.

 They move into this old house. Except… someone had left the back door open. For weeks. So, the hot Texas wind blew in nothing but sand and dirt. It looked like the Sahara Desert had Airbnb’d the living room.

Someone replaced the carpet and floors, and Valerie was like, “Good enough.”

No. Trust me—NOT good enough.

So, I went down to visit. And listen, I’m a low-maintenance guest. I roll in with an air mattress, bedding, and a camp chair. “Have air mattress, will travel.”

Now, Tahoka is this quaint little town… full of goat heads.

If you don’t know what a goat head is—it’s basically the devil’s thumbtack. Doesn’t matter how it lands, a spike is always pointing up, just waiting for your bare foot.

And you can’t go barefoot, because someone’s always wearing shoes in the house. So you get stabbed in your own living room. It’s like living in a medieval torture chamber designed by HGTV.

And the wind? The wind in Tahoka doesn’t just blow. No. It tries to kill you. They should rename the town T’ell-U-Ride. Because every time you step outside, you’re like, “This is it. This is how I die. Pinned against a wall by a door.”

So, first night there—I’m settled in. My air mattress is by the bathroom. Middle of the night—CRASH!

I jump up. My heart’s racing. I think, “Oh no, Terry's fallen again!” And sure enough, he had. Right into the tub.

Now listen, this man is 90 pounds fully clothed and dunked in a lake. But still, I don’t rush in. Why? Because dignity matters. If he’s on the toilet when it happens—he does not need me busting in like a one-woman paramedic team.

Meanwhile, my sister just grumbles, “You have to wake me up if you need to use the bathroom.” Like that’s a normal sentence.

That bathroom, though… nightmare fuel.

The toilet doesn’t flush the first time. Or the second. You have to sweet-talk it with a plunger like you’re coaxing a toddler to eat broccoli.

The bathtub? Full of scrapings. Don’t ask me what they scraped. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I tried to scrub it—Magic Eraser, bleach, prayer—it was pointless. That grime is written into the Book of Revelation.

So I had an idea.

Dollar Tree! (Well, Dollar Tree/Family Dollar combo. Two stores in one. It’s like Target… if Target had just given up.)

I bought three shower liners and NAILED them to the walls. Hung up a curtain rod, threw down a new bathmat. Boom. Now if I accidentally touch something, at least I know it’s clean plastic. I basically Dexter-ed that bathroom.

I was so proud. I even sent my brother a picture, like, “Look at me! Bathroom makeover queen!”

I’m expecting an “attaboy.” At the very least, a “Good job, Martha Stewart.”

Nope. He sends the picture to my niece and scolds her for moving her parents into a dump.

And that… is when the fight started.

So now my sister’s mad, my niece is mad, the bathroom’s still haunted, and I’m tiptoeing around goat heads in a Texas dust storm thinking…

You know what? Maybe I should’ve just moved to Florida.

Because if I’m gonna get stabbed in the foot, I’d rather it be by a seashell… not Satan’s Legos.


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