My worst fears were realized today, Dear Reader.
The Band Aid Nazi was playing outside with the neighbor kid. I had been cajoled in to making dinner for the Nazi and her friend. I was enjoying making bean burritos, mixing up some black beans and cumin and chili powder. I could hear squeals and shouts of the Nazi and her friend running through the sprinkler next door.
I tried to pull out the drawer where the can opener lived but it was stuck. I skinnied my hand through the small space to discover what was preventing the drawer from opening. It was, in fact, the can opener sitting just inside the opening at an odd angle, hindering the drawer from sliding open any further. I bent my knees and twisted my hand, trying to maneuver the can opener back in to the space it normally occupied. No matter how I turned it, the drawer was stuck. I slithered my other hand into the small space. My hands and my head didn't seem to be working in tandem, as the can opener turned from one awkward position to another. Pulling open the drawer roughly didn't have any positive effect. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the new can opener looked like. I could only remember that it was lime green. That was no help in this predicament.
I don't know for how long I fought that dastardly kitchen implement. Luckily the tomatoes and onions were on a low heat, so they weren't burning up in the frying pan. I felt quite smug when I finally got the drawer open. The smugness evaporated when the new can opener failed to open the can of chicken. I had to resort to the old can opener. That was when I noticed a large pool of blood on my knuckle. In my struggle, I had cut my finger on some unknown kitchen tool. The suspects were many, as that drawer houses knives, can openers, bottle openers, a corn shaver and a pizza cutter. I stuck my finger under a stream of water at the sink. As soon as I removed it, the blood welled up again. I needed a Band Aid. That is when it hit me.
I had no idea where the Band Aid Nazi stores the Band Aids. I rinsed my finger again. Glancing around, I raced from the sink to the tissue box and wrapped my finger in a Kleenex, putting pressure on the knuckle. I looked out into the yard, hoping to get a glimpse of the Nazi, but she was out of sight at the sprinkler. My finger was still bleeding. I contemplated cooking dinner with a Kleenex tourniquet, but quickly banished the thought. That's when I remembered that my friend Stacy, after reading The Band Aid Nazi, had given me my own secret stash of Band Aids.
I raced to my hiding place, hoping that the Nazi had not intuitively discovered the box. Thankfully, it was still there. I ripped in to the Band Aid and wrapped my finger. Thank you, Stacy. Without your thoughtfulness, I would have bled to death today.
Lament of the Laundress
I am a terrible laundress. (Note to self: later look up the masculine form of "laundress".) I have a terrible track record of removing stains and odors, ruining garments which belong to others, and losing socks. This last problem may not be unique to me. Allow me to offer up evidence to my claim.
In the previous century, my mom and I travelled to Australia. One of highlights of the trip was when we went to the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary in Brisbane and we got to cuddle a koala. Well, I cuddled the koala. His name was Russell. You hold a koala in much the same way you would hold a child - its legs aim to go around you and you put one hand on its back and one hand under its smelly little bottom. I can say this with confidence because of what happened as a result of the cuddling. Before I tell you what happened, I want to assure you that no matter how soft and cuddly koalas look, they aren't. If you have ever pet a sheep with the expectation of sinking your hand into soft, fluffy fur, and then were disappointed, you know the sensation of petting a koala. They are kind of sticky and greasy, probably because of eating about a pound of eucalyptus every day. If you have never touched a sheep, take my word for it. Back to the story.
When we got back to our hotel, or probably even before that, I discovered that there was an invisible, odiferous spot on my shirt, exactly where Russell's smelly underside had perched. Luckily for me, we had a washing machine available to us, so I put together a load of clothes. My mom threw some of her things in as well. I accept the blame for what transpired next, although I am sure you will agree with me that I was in no way responsible. When the clean clothes came out of the dryer, my shirt was bright and clean. Mom's shirt did not come out in such pristine condition. In fact, it was decidedly less fresh than when it began the laundering process. Somehow, the malodorous spot had transferred from my shirt to hers. It smelled like Russell's rump. She has always maintained that I engineered it to turn out that way. It's my laundress luck.
Another example of my ineptness happened many years later. Girl6 had received a plush black fleece cardigan. The hood, with which she was very enamored, was lined with what I can only refer to as white fur. It was a pretty little number, and to a six year old it was the Bee's Knees. (Note to self: investigate the origins of that phrase.) The day came when it was time to be washed for the first time. I washed it in the "gentle" cycle. It came out in one piece, so I happily tossed it with abandon into the dryer. Sadly, it did not come out as the Bee's Knees. The fur, which had been so fluffy and soft, had melted to itself in the dryer and emerged like wet cotton balls. Girl6 was, and is still, furious with me, and, although the fleece still fits, she wears it only as a last resort.
Melting in the dryer seems to be my special talent. Just yesterday I was washing the waterproof mattress pad. You may not want to venture into the reasons why my mattress sports a waterproof mattress pad, but I will assure you it is nothing that you are thinking. I cannot assume what the worst words for you to hear in the night would be, but for me, the most alarming words have been, "Mama! I think I wet your bed!" Immediately after being jolted awake by those words I bought myself a waterproof mattress pad. Back to the story.
Of course I read the washing instructions, Suspicious Reader, I know enough to do that! I followed them to the letter, washing on the "hand wash" cycle and using gentle detergent. I checked to make sure it could go in the dryer, and the tag confirmed this. Imagine my horror when I reached into the dryer and pulled out a big wad of fabric. The waterproof part had stuck to itself in a crinkly mess. I took it back to the bedroom and laid it on the bed the best that I could. I tried to gently pull the wrinkles apart from one another. As careful as I was, I tore a big hole in the waterproof fabric. I ask you: what use is a waterproof mattress pad if it has a hole in it? I am embarrassed to tell you that this is, in fact, the second waterproof mattress pad that has melted to itself in the dryer. You would think that I would have learned my lesson.
The sad ending to my story is that I really want to be an exceptional laundress. I would love to know what magical formula to use on tomato sauce or strawberry stains, for how long to soak a grass stained knee, and which detergent will make my daughter's clothes smell like a summer breeze. There are more laundry mysteries for me to ponder, but first I have to check on that electric blanket that I washed this morning.
In the previous century, my mom and I travelled to Australia. One of highlights of the trip was when we went to the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary in Brisbane and we got to cuddle a koala. Well, I cuddled the koala. His name was Russell. You hold a koala in much the same way you would hold a child - its legs aim to go around you and you put one hand on its back and one hand under its smelly little bottom. I can say this with confidence because of what happened as a result of the cuddling. Before I tell you what happened, I want to assure you that no matter how soft and cuddly koalas look, they aren't. If you have ever pet a sheep with the expectation of sinking your hand into soft, fluffy fur, and then were disappointed, you know the sensation of petting a koala. They are kind of sticky and greasy, probably because of eating about a pound of eucalyptus every day. If you have never touched a sheep, take my word for it. Back to the story.
When we got back to our hotel, or probably even before that, I discovered that there was an invisible, odiferous spot on my shirt, exactly where Russell's smelly underside had perched. Luckily for me, we had a washing machine available to us, so I put together a load of clothes. My mom threw some of her things in as well. I accept the blame for what transpired next, although I am sure you will agree with me that I was in no way responsible. When the clean clothes came out of the dryer, my shirt was bright and clean. Mom's shirt did not come out in such pristine condition. In fact, it was decidedly less fresh than when it began the laundering process. Somehow, the malodorous spot had transferred from my shirt to hers. It smelled like Russell's rump. She has always maintained that I engineered it to turn out that way. It's my laundress luck.
Another example of my ineptness happened many years later. Girl6 had received a plush black fleece cardigan. The hood, with which she was very enamored, was lined with what I can only refer to as white fur. It was a pretty little number, and to a six year old it was the Bee's Knees. (Note to self: investigate the origins of that phrase.) The day came when it was time to be washed for the first time. I washed it in the "gentle" cycle. It came out in one piece, so I happily tossed it with abandon into the dryer. Sadly, it did not come out as the Bee's Knees. The fur, which had been so fluffy and soft, had melted to itself in the dryer and emerged like wet cotton balls. Girl6 was, and is still, furious with me, and, although the fleece still fits, she wears it only as a last resort.
Melting in the dryer seems to be my special talent. Just yesterday I was washing the waterproof mattress pad. You may not want to venture into the reasons why my mattress sports a waterproof mattress pad, but I will assure you it is nothing that you are thinking. I cannot assume what the worst words for you to hear in the night would be, but for me, the most alarming words have been, "Mama! I think I wet your bed!" Immediately after being jolted awake by those words I bought myself a waterproof mattress pad. Back to the story.
Of course I read the washing instructions, Suspicious Reader, I know enough to do that! I followed them to the letter, washing on the "hand wash" cycle and using gentle detergent. I checked to make sure it could go in the dryer, and the tag confirmed this. Imagine my horror when I reached into the dryer and pulled out a big wad of fabric. The waterproof part had stuck to itself in a crinkly mess. I took it back to the bedroom and laid it on the bed the best that I could. I tried to gently pull the wrinkles apart from one another. As careful as I was, I tore a big hole in the waterproof fabric. I ask you: what use is a waterproof mattress pad if it has a hole in it? I am embarrassed to tell you that this is, in fact, the second waterproof mattress pad that has melted to itself in the dryer. You would think that I would have learned my lesson.
The sad ending to my story is that I really want to be an exceptional laundress. I would love to know what magical formula to use on tomato sauce or strawberry stains, for how long to soak a grass stained knee, and which detergent will make my daughter's clothes smell like a summer breeze. There are more laundry mysteries for me to ponder, but first I have to check on that electric blanket that I washed this morning.
So Much Talent, So Little Time
As many of you have been concerned about my dress dilemma, many more of you have been brainstorming to help me to decide how to participate in my sister's wedding in the meadow. I have appreciated all of your ideas and am still accepting suggestions through the middle of August. Please don't hesitate to throw in your two cents. Although several of you more Progressive Readers have responded very enthusiastically to my musical puppet show idea, many more of you have frowned and shaken your heads disapprovingly (Mom).
The groom recently sent all of the siblings an email and graciously invited us all to be participants in some way in the nuptials. The "some way" has been left up to our individual discretion. We have pre-approved status! The groom's sister immediately dibsed doing a daring trapeze routine, without a net. We have been told that the groom's brother will act as the Master of Ceremonies, or the Ringleader, as the case may merit. The bride's brother has some fascinating magic tricks up his sleeve, and I would hate to be a spoiler, but if you haven't seen the one where he levitates sunglasses, you have really missed out. Additionally, he can juggle pretty much any sort of vegetable. That leaves the bride's sister, Yours Truly.
You know that I have many talents. The problem is, which one to showcase for three minutes during the ceremony? Perusing through my past posts, the Alert Reader will note that I am perfectly capable of growing herbs and making pesto, building round woodpiles, and turning out baked goods. I am particularly talented at spotting socially unacceptable behavior, pointing out the more fetid aspects of restrooms, public or private, and denouncing street side panhandlers. Recently I have become skilled at evaporating milk in the privacy of my own home. My hobbies include scrapbooking, reading British historical mysteries, and Middle Eastern dancing. With so many skills, it is difficult to choose just one.
It has been suggested that, donning my hip scarf and zils, I belly dance to the sound of a mizmar, while balancing a chair in my teeth. You can see me practicing in this never-before-seen video. I am only sorry that you are unable to hear the howling of the mizmar in the background.
Helpful Readers have suggested that I bring my own hot plate to the meadow to make mints and pass them out as wedding favors, or give a quick lesson on how to substitute ingredients in a recipe. Most recently I have mastered making my own curry spice. I am quite confident that, even in a meadow, I could replicate the recipe, captivating the guests with my abilities in measurement while inspiring mutual love and devotion in the bride and groom.
I have considered throwing in with the groom's sister and doing a tandem trapeze act with her, but I hate to horn in on her action, which promises to be spectacular. Truth be told, I am still leaning toward the musical puppet show.
This will not be my first public performance as a puppeteer in a meadow. Many summers ago my cousin and I made puppets out of athletic socks, muslin and a fur glove. We accessorized them with dried grass and hair. I can remember staying up late several nights in a row, depleting the supplies of Scotch tape, thread and safety pins. We wrote a script and rehearsed nonstop. As we were vacationing on an island, our stage was conveniently the hull of a dilapidated boat. We made posters advertising the upcoming debut and hung them in well-frequented areas. When the day came, the meadow was full of little children and their doting parents. What I remember the most is that we had a bag of orange-flavored, peanut-shaped marshmallows that we hated. Those marshmallows were passed out as refreshments and probably made more of an impact than the actual puppet show.
So you see, Enthralled Reader, if you had any doubts or concerns about my expertise as a puppeteer, in a meadow, they should now be vanquished. I am well versed in puppet creations and scriptwriting. As long as I pass out orange peanut-marshmallows to the wedding guests, everything will be fine.
The groom recently sent all of the siblings an email and graciously invited us all to be participants in some way in the nuptials. The "some way" has been left up to our individual discretion. We have pre-approved status! The groom's sister immediately dibsed doing a daring trapeze routine, without a net. We have been told that the groom's brother will act as the Master of Ceremonies, or the Ringleader, as the case may merit. The bride's brother has some fascinating magic tricks up his sleeve, and I would hate to be a spoiler, but if you haven't seen the one where he levitates sunglasses, you have really missed out. Additionally, he can juggle pretty much any sort of vegetable. That leaves the bride's sister, Yours Truly.
You know that I have many talents. The problem is, which one to showcase for three minutes during the ceremony? Perusing through my past posts, the Alert Reader will note that I am perfectly capable of growing herbs and making pesto, building round woodpiles, and turning out baked goods. I am particularly talented at spotting socially unacceptable behavior, pointing out the more fetid aspects of restrooms, public or private, and denouncing street side panhandlers. Recently I have become skilled at evaporating milk in the privacy of my own home. My hobbies include scrapbooking, reading British historical mysteries, and Middle Eastern dancing. With so many skills, it is difficult to choose just one.
It has been suggested that, donning my hip scarf and zils, I belly dance to the sound of a mizmar, while balancing a chair in my teeth. You can see me practicing in this never-before-seen video. I am only sorry that you are unable to hear the howling of the mizmar in the background.
Incidentally, in traditional Egyptian weddings, a mizmar player leads the wedding procession and is accompanied by a belly dancer. So this idea is not really as far out as you think. Click here to hear the Egyptian equivalent of "Here Comes the Bride" and imagine me dancing to it. The only hangup in this plan is that neither the bride nor the groom is Egyptian, thus dashing my hopes of performing in their traditional Egyptian wedding.
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| Will Southwest Air allow this as a carry-on? |
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| My cousin made the cute ones. |
So you see, Enthralled Reader, if you had any doubts or concerns about my expertise as a puppeteer, in a meadow, they should now be vanquished. I am well versed in puppet creations and scriptwriting. As long as I pass out orange peanut-marshmallows to the wedding guests, everything will be fine.
Dish on the Dress
Dogged Readers, thank you for closely monitoring my dress dilemma. Many of you have thought about sending me suggestions and when I didn't get them, I realized that they were from you. I was feeling the ESP vibes from all of you, and listened to what you weren't saying. I heard myself say to Girl8 one day, "We aren't going to make any Desperation Purchases! You have to really like it or we aren't getting it! That means no buying just for the sake of getting Something, Anything!" I thought it prudent to follow my own advice and I backed away from the Internet, my hands in the air.
It was amazing how much spare time I had, since I wasn't glued to the computer, surfing the World Wide Web at all hours. My eyesight seemed to improve and I no longer feared that I had carpal tunnel syndrome. Girl8 hardly recognized me with my new cheerful demeanor and no bags under my eyes. We had time to make recital invitations, play Canasta, and learn the words to I'll Be Loving You Always. In three languages.
The niggle of the thought of the dress was always there, but I had squashed it so far down in my brain that it didn't tickle too much. One day the niggle surfaced enough so that my fingers independently sought out my favorite designer and googled her name plus desirable traits of the elusive dress. The internet obligingly served up my dream dress at a nightmare of a price. My fingers then autonomously crept to a well-known auction site and inquired about the existence of the dream dress in a particular size.
Astonishingly, the dress materialized in the right size, a beautiful color, and an extraordinary price. My fingers froze over the keyboard. Girl8 appeared out of nowhere, took one glance and began to chant, "Buy IT, Buy IT, Buy IT!" Had I looked out the window at that moment, I think the stars would have been aligned to spell out "Buy It!" I blinked several times and my fingers clicked "Buy It Now".
It was amazing how much spare time I had, since I wasn't glued to the computer, surfing the World Wide Web at all hours. My eyesight seemed to improve and I no longer feared that I had carpal tunnel syndrome. Girl8 hardly recognized me with my new cheerful demeanor and no bags under my eyes. We had time to make recital invitations, play Canasta, and learn the words to I'll Be Loving You Always. In three languages.
The niggle of the thought of the dress was always there, but I had squashed it so far down in my brain that it didn't tickle too much. One day the niggle surfaced enough so that my fingers independently sought out my favorite designer and googled her name plus desirable traits of the elusive dress. The internet obligingly served up my dream dress at a nightmare of a price. My fingers then autonomously crept to a well-known auction site and inquired about the existence of the dream dress in a particular size.
Astonishingly, the dress materialized in the right size, a beautiful color, and an extraordinary price. My fingers froze over the keyboard. Girl8 appeared out of nowhere, took one glance and began to chant, "Buy IT, Buy IT, Buy IT!" Had I looked out the window at that moment, I think the stars would have been aligned to spell out "Buy It!" I blinked several times and my fingers clicked "Buy It Now".
Doesn't it look great on me! I just hope that this dress doesn't hamper my trapeze performance with the groom's sister at the wedding.
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