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Archive for the tag “dishwasher”

Monday Musings

I’m up and sitting here with nothing to do but mess around on the computer.   Actually, I’m lying.  I have plenty to do.  I could fold the clothes in the dryer.  AHAHAHAHAHA not.  Or vacuum.  At 5:30am hubs would love that, he can’t stand the sound of the vacuum at any time, I bet he’d really hate it as an alarm clock.  Load the dishwasher, but I’m kind of on strike with the dishwasher.  Actually I should probably load and run it about 5 times a day so it will break down faster and I can get a new one.  I hate this dishwasher – first world problem.  Finish the mess I started at 4pm yesterday – on a Sunday, WTH? – when I decided to clean both closets in my office.  I’ll post a pic, it’s not pretty.  I’m afraid I could lose a whole person in the mess.   But, no, here I sit, with my handmade mug from our trip to Telluride about, OMG, I think 16 years ago, full of hot steaming coffee, proof that God loves us and wants my family safe, to paraphrase Ben.

Chunker is a new girl.  We got home late Saturday and she was so sweet, not upset at all about our being gone.  She jumped on the counter and had to sniff my nose.  She’s so cute, she puts her little nose to mine so softly.  I  think it helped that #4 (the traitor) stayed here so she wasn’t alone 24/7.  She’s not good at that, I’ve been with her since she weighed 6.5 ounces and she kinda depends on the company.  Guess whenever I go out of town from now on Traitor, I mean, #4 child, will just have to take vacation days and come back to Memphis.  Murph T. Dog had to get a bath yesterday, either Traitor and his friends took him out on the boat or he rolled in something fine, either way he stank.  It’s so pathetic, he ran away from hubs, around the yard to the kitchen door, looking at me, face sad, ears drooping, tail tucked.  “Mom!  Save me!” but no, I turned him in to the Bath Police.  Afterward he’s so happy he literally bounces.  “I’m ALIVE!  I’m ALIVE!  Praise Jayzuss, I lived!”  Near Death Experience:  Flea Shampoo.

Every time I mention to one of my running buds that I’m on a goal to shave off a few pounds they do the whole big eyeball thing, Why do YOU want to lose weight??  Because I’m well over 40, in fact I was probably 40 when I got that coffee cup, and I’ve packed on a few pounds.  “They” say you put on 8-10 per decade if you don’t watch it.  I’m watching it, all right, and it’s getting easier to see.  At this rate, at 70, I’m going to be 30 pounds overweight and I’m not going to do it, this post explains why.  Anyway, I ordered one of those body fat scales from Amazon.  Looking into them and reading reviews online, you have to admit they are not perfect.  But using the scale every day at the same time will be a tool I can use.  It’s almost against my religion to use a scale, so this is a big step for me.  I’m anti-scale, I’m sorry, I’ve tried to be open minded but I hate the nasty lying little buggers.

Since I also love to eat food of nearly any kind other that Brussel Sprouts – and don’t either of you Faithful Followers Of My World Famous Blog try telling me you have a recipe that is so awesome I will turn into a Brussel Sprouts Lover, because it cannot happen, many have tried and many have failed, Brussel Sprouts and scales, I’m close minded – I mean, I LOVE to eat, just ask my trainer Cheryl, AKA Killer, who stares at me in wonder as I discuss at every session what I ate yesterday, what I’m going to eat tomorrow and maybe the next day, stopping only to be distracted by whatever speciality they are making on the morning news show on the TV on the wall.

The solution is trying to eat cleaner, and spending more calories.  I’m trying to limit impact from running right now, so I’ve turned to the bike, or spin class.  I’m a bike wimp. I use sissy pedals on a nice bike.  I can’t even find my bike shorts, but really those things are useless anyway, that little bit of padding is worthless as far as saving your butt from hurting.  They’re pretty good at making you walk funny and look like you have a full diaper, tho, if you’re into that.  So this morning I’m meeting some buds, we’re planning to do 10 slow and then ride.  We have a Greenline now and it’s all nearly connected.  Circling and then going out and back we can get in 27 miles.  Of course, we love to stop at a little place on the way and eat; I love this place, they have a Cuban sandwich on pannini that I dream about.  In fact I think I just started salivating.  I knew this all along, but didn’t implement it; biking is a fantastic compliment to running.  If I used the clips it would be even better, but after I fell off the bike – actually, I didn’t fall OFF the bike, I fell with the bike still attached to me – and found myself lying on the pavement looking at the truck tire that, had I fallen about three seconds earlier the passing truck would have driven over my head but was now safely a couple feet past me, I just can’t do it.  Too scared.  Chicken chicken chicken.  Lately I actually thought about riding in the front yard with clips and practicing falling on the grass.  Then it occurred to me what an idiot I would look like, an old lady riding her bike in circles in the front yard, falling over.  In daylight.  Sober.

So I’m off to load the bike, poor thing, humbled by its sissy pedals, silently and jealously watching all the other bikes with real, clip-in pedals, into Babs (my car has a name, it’s Babs) and head to the Farms.  HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY TO YOU ALL!

And to all who have served our country in any way, to their family and loved ones:  Thank you very much for all you’ve done so I can sit here and complain about my dishwasher in safety.  I mean that very sincerely.  You make our world safe.  Thank you.

Should I really have started this?  And – I put the Telluride mug on top of the box so you can see it 🙂  HAPPY TRAILS –

Back in the saddle again (again)

Ok, I’m back.  Today I’m going to blog about being back in the saddle again.

But first I have to tell you both something.  I feel kinda bad about it, but I didn’t know.  You know how it is, you try to be the best mom you can be but sometimes you just miss the signs.  The poor little things are trying desperately to tell you something but you miss the clues and just assume something that might not even be true.  So I have to tell you that maybe I misjudged little Chunker and maybe she isn’t turning into a Zombie Cat after all.

Probably I misjudged her because I was looking at her actions and not understanding the possible cause(s).  But she’s been kind of a bad girl lately and I just assumed it was her own fault.  Finally I decided I needed to look into things, and I googled it.  I figure, if google doesn’t know the answer, no one knows the answer and we’re all going to die.  Not that I’m a fatalist or anything.  I do think there are things we can do that are not just left to fate.

For instance, one thing you can do that is not just left to fate is load and unload the dishwasher.  If you think about it, the dishes are never going to load themselves so you can either believe it is predetermined that dishes will never get washed thus assuming dishes will always be dirty and in the sink (and the corollary, dishes that are clean in the dishwasher will never put themselves away and will always be clean and in the dishwasher) (which, if you think about it, thus turns the dishwasher into a cupboard) (which is very weird to think about.  If the dishwasher is thus a cupboard, then where is the dishwasher?).

I’m really confused.  Where was I?

Oh, yeah, loading the dishwasher.  One thing that surprised me recently is the discovery that my mother, the woman of ‘all things washable are washed immediately and put away immediately’ and…well, there is no and.  It’s gonna be done, now, by you (meaning, me).  I’ll tell you how bad it was:  I grew up in a home without a dishwasher.  Yes.  I know you are shocked, horrified and dismayed, but there it is.  I’m outed.   I had dishpan hands at the age of 8.  So anyway, my mom, who in my childhood had half the dishes in the kitchen sink before dinner was even over … now leaves her dishes in the sink for however long she feels like it.  MAYBE EVEN UNTIL LATER IN THE DAY.  I’ll repeat that.  MY MOM DOES NOT DO HER DISHES IMMEDIATELY DURING OR AFTER EATING.

You can imagine how my world crumbled.  The foundation upon which everything was laid:  dust.  Do you understand?  IF YOU DO NOT DO THE DISHES IMMEDIATELY YOU WILL NOT DIE.

This means that if I do not do the dishes – and I’m trying to comprehend this myself, so hang with me while I try to make it very clear to both of us – again I state, I will NOT DIE.

This means that I could possibly have been mistaken when I got a little testy about dirty cups left on the counter once (here) and maybe was a bit sharp in pointing out how dishwashers work (here).  This also must mean (I can’t believe I’m typing this, the only grace left is that none of my children read my blog so they will never know I admitted this) I. Could.

I don’t know.  I think I’m going to choke.  Deep Breath.  I. Could. Have. Been. Wrong.

However, it also still means that I’m the one left putting the dishes into and out of the dishwasher, only now I get to do it at my own home and at my mother’s, unless I don’t mind looking at them in the sink for most of the day.  Not for the first time I realize:  I am my mother.  I don’t want to look at the dishes in the sink.

My sweet little Chunker just jumped into my lap while I’m typing this.  She’s all warm and soft and purring, and she did not even try to bite me.  Not once.  And she slept with me last night and didn’t sleep on my head.  Close to it, but not on it.

Oh, that reminds me, I was going to tell you about Chunk.  Anyway, I googled the issues and realized we might have a problem.  I called the Vet who said to come on over which meant she got crammed into the Box of Terror, which then got put in the bigger Box of Terror which has wheels, and from there got taken into the Room of Terror, where the horrid man in the white lab coat said reassuringly, it’s OK little kitty while he crammed a thermometer up her – oh, never mind, Chunk doesn’t want me to talk about that part, sorry.  Anyway, the thermometer went where they are want to go.  Then she got two needles full of steroids and antibiotics shoved into her booty and then was crammed back into the Box of Terror where the process outlined above was repeated in reverse order.

When she got home she was very surprised and intrigued by the little spray can the horrid man in the white lab coat had given me, which, when sprayed lightly around the room made little happy pheromones float about.  The happy pheromones made Chunker feel all calm and zen and she began to regret her previous actions even though at the time she was just a very distraught little kitty who didn’t know where mom had gone for three weeks.  Not that Murph hadn’t tried to tell her – he did.  He was like, “Chunk, you dipshit, chill.  I’m chilling.  Look, I have the whole bed to myself.  Look, now I have the whole couch to myself.  Now I have mom’s chair all to myself.  We have food, we have water.  You even have your own potty.  I’m the one holding it all day long until dad gets home.  Get over it!” and meanwhile Chunker was apparently running wildly about the house saying “We’re gonna DIE we’re gonna STARVE we’re gonna be ALL ALONE and she’s NEVER COMING BACK and my tummy hurts and I think I need to whizz.  HERE.  In the den!  Now!!”

Apparently the whizzing in the den just made her more distraught which caused distraught pheromones to float about the house in greater and greater amounts the more distraught she became which then turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy of more distraughtness causing even more upset pheromones … and you can see where it all ended up.  In the Room of Terror with the bad man and the thermometer.

Fortunately this seems to have a happy ending because the two injections solved the UTI and the pheromones solved the upset.  If only they’d invented pheromones when I had four kids in puberty.

Wait.  Dammit.  I was going to blog about being back in the saddle again.  See how you two constantly distract me?  Now I can’t, I have to get ready to go run hills with the hubster, which is stupid to say ‘with’ him since I can only stay ‘with’ him for about 20 feet, but anyway, doesn’t that sound like a lot of fun.  Maybe I should sniff some of those pheromones.

I am a realist. A pragmatist.

For me, the glass is half full because someone drank part of it.  And left it on the counter.  Where it will sit until the end of time unless I (which I capitalized to emphasize that it’s ME, but I is always capitalized so the emphasis is not visible.  Just pretend.) throw the rest out and put the dirty cup in the invisible dishwasher.

As a realist I have mediocre expectations that I (this time I is just capitalized for being I, I’m not emphasizing it this time.  Just so you know.  In case you wanted to keep track.) or anyone else including the cup leaver behinder will exhibit drastic changes in their personalities and habits.  As a pramatist I have come to this philosophy by observing in my own life that nothing much changes which I express frequently by saying “Oh, well” and sometimes “Oh, well h*ll”.  Exhibit A:  the cup.

Which is why I am confused this morning.

I awoke with a feeling of ennui.  (I had to look up how to spell ennui which was kinda hard to do because I only knew it started with an ‘e’ and somewhere in it has an ‘i’, which is not capitalized.  Thank God google knows me well and immediately offered helpful suggestions.  It did not, however, put the dirty cup in the invisible dishwasher.  Not that I’m bitter.)

Why, I pondered in bed while curled sadly around Mushy Pillow, do I feel vaguely dissatisfied?  Why this feeling of ennui?

Yesterday I woke:  bright world, sunny day, going for a run!  Seeing the peeps!  Hugging the Brettster!  Happy Happy Joy Joy!

This morning: darkness.  Grey, all encompassing black darkness.

Then I remembered I should  turn on the light since it was 5:30am which is almost midnight so that helped a lot.

Yet it followed me like a little grey puppy, nipping at my heels, yip yip yip dissatisfied yip yip sad yip yip something is missing yip.

Pondering.  Sipping coffee and pondering, glassy-eyed staring out the window.  What am I missing?  What did I forget?  I wandered through the house checking that everything was as it should be.  Dog sleeping on bed, cat locked in bathroom until Petco opens, furniture not stolen in the night which the dog, in his 23 hours a day sleep-induced coma would not have heard, hubs awake at oh my god in the morning and already exercising for 13 hours: all check.  What do I have planned for today?  Did I forget something yesterday?

And then…I remembered.  I remembered the joy, the golden glow of potential, the shimmering possibilities of the New Year.  The promise of new beginnings … RESOLUTIONS

A pragmatic realist should know better than to make resolutions.

And this is what happened that shining, promise-filled first day of 2012:

~ I did not run 87 miles

~ I did not lose 12 pounds

~ I did not eat granola with greek yogurt and fruits and berries high in antioxidants followed by a lunch of dark leafy greens and chopped veggies in a low-fat balsamic vinaigrette reduction and a dinner of 4 ounces of skinless chicken breast and oven roasted eggplant.

~ I did not even open the Drawer of Terror, much less attempt to clean it out.

~ I did not leap tall buildings in a single bound

~ I did not win the lottery

~ I did not sprout wings and run a 6 minute mile.  Or 7.  Or 8…or 9…or…10…

~ And while most of you do not know this, the largest disappointment of all:  I failed to trim the cat’s claws.

All of it:  gone.  Dust.  Disillusionment.  Shattered dreams, lost hope.  Deep hole of darkness.

Oh, well h*ll.  At least I can put the cup in the dishwasher.

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