Our meetings for church are from 1 to 4 p.m. while the building remodeling and new construction rages on. It makes my Sunday feel sort of like an episode of the Outer Limits.
I don't mind the odd time most Sundays, but there are some Sundays that are definitely harder than others and I miss that drooling, eyes partially opened, slack-jawed napping that used to take up part of the day... generally sometime between the hours of 1 and 4 p.m.
I'm a big girl and can get along without a nap fairly well, but there is something luxurious about having a nap that refreshes.
Sadly, that isn't possible unless I do the napping during church. Although it wouldn't ruffle my feathers one bit to stretch out across a pew and wrap up in my thoughtfully packed beforehand stadium blankie, others would whine.
Don't you just hate whiners?
They would say ugly things about how I shouldn't be there if I'm too tired to be away. Probably a valid point, but so is the point about being there in church unless I'm dead.
They might mention the fact that I'm taking up a significant portion of the pew in a horizontal position preventing other congregants from having a place to sit. To them I say, "Use the overflow seating! That's why God invented it... so people who overflowed the regular seats could sit down somewhere less padded."
Frankly, they don't have a leg to stand on, or a butt cheek to sit on, regarding this issue because everyone knows latecomers get the sloms and drinds of seating anyway and shouldn't expect to usurp the padded benches upon their late arrival.
Of course, the ever present issue of snoring is of concern. Thankfully, if you poke me, I stop snoring and break your finger. Solves that concern!
Then, the finally issue of the parting of the seas of drool... if you are troubled by drool from sleepers, I would ask that you focus your kind attentions on things of a more troubling nature that people who are not in a somnambulant state do...
Non-church sleepers are well known to commit 99.9% of all crimes.
Non-church sleepers cause 99.9% of all motor vehicle accidents.
Non-church sleepers are responsible for world hunger.
The list goes on and on and on.
So quit bugging me and let me catch 40 winks between hymns. Of course, that might create a problem since I generally sit right up in front to direct the music for the congregational singing...
Should I disappear from sight between the music having slid out of my seat and into the floor, just get up and take my place to direct the next hymn.
I guarantee NO ONE will notice since they don't pay attention to the person leading the hymns anyway. That's why there are 73 different tempos going on in your average church service as well as having about 16 variant volumes of singing.
If only I had perfected sleep walking... it could have been an interesting day.
September 12, 2010
September 8, 2010
There has to be a better way
Washing dishes is not an activity I enjoy. I'd much rather be catching 'the pepper' from a young pitcher with more speed than he knows how to handle or mowing the yard. Seriously.
But, like all things in life, there are some unpleasant tasks that require doing because the Jetson's lifestyle has yet to catch up to our desires. No home robot to take care of the chores and no cars that fold up into briefcases. I'm crushed.
Today, the dishes have taxed me to my limit, though.
Regardless of the careful flow of the arrangements in the dish drainer, the dadgum plastic Tupperware tumblers are DETERMINED to compel me to wash and rewash them in some sort of Twilight Zone moment, which has NOTHING to do with half-naked vampires...
The tumblers, apparently possessed of some sort of artificial plastic intelligence, pop off from the little cup holders on the side of the dish drainer and skittle across the floor like they are alive, which they probably are.
I scoop them up.
I dip them back into the sinkful of scalding water (at least that is what everyone tells me the temperature is when they are compelled to washup something that is tardy to the party and I'm done with the dishes).
I wash them and rinse them and reattach them to the sides of the dish drainer.
Alas, it doesn't last.
The bliss of drying dishes is marred by the sound of the tumblers smacking the porcelain tiles once again.
Or, in a total change of direction, they slip off and roll around the counter knocking the recycling off into the floor.
Either way, I'm bending over scooping up something from the tiles and wiping up little droplets of bone breaking liquid that will certainly come back to create agony if given half a chance.
I'm ready for some entrepreneur to get on the stick and create the Jetson's kitchen for me. While I enjoy cooking, I must admit I'd like the convenience of having Rosie the Robot to whip up a sumptuous 7-course meal from leftovers. I'd also like a self cleaning kitchen.
And while we are on the subject of self cleaning room fantasy, I'd also like a self cleaning bathroom. There cannot possibly be a long list of tasks more odious than that of cleaning the toilet. After all, consider what it is employed to do...do...
Sorry, juvenile pun at your expense. But you smiled and that makes it worth it.
I have wondered if someone could take the time to invent a drying station for the home kitchen so that things could roll through like a small pizza oven set to warm, not bake, the dishes. The convenient little machine could also stack them and put them away.
But, if we are going for the gusto, how about the Star Trek version of dishes. Some aspiring wanna-be rich kid needs to invent the replicator. Then everything from soup to nuts and the serving dishes that hold them would be returned to their subatomic state to be rendered into something else at a later date.
And, since atoms are notoriously clean, even waste products and garbage could be similarly reduced, reused and recycled. No more landfills!
Oh, well.
The last of the dishes calls to me since I was a complete slacker and didn't do a single dish before bed last night.
Does that make me a bad person or simply a hopeful one? Hoping that by morning they would have done themselves or been subatomically rearranged into fat free Belgian waffles?
But, like all things in life, there are some unpleasant tasks that require doing because the Jetson's lifestyle has yet to catch up to our desires. No home robot to take care of the chores and no cars that fold up into briefcases. I'm crushed.
Today, the dishes have taxed me to my limit, though.
Regardless of the careful flow of the arrangements in the dish drainer, the dadgum plastic Tupperware tumblers are DETERMINED to compel me to wash and rewash them in some sort of Twilight Zone moment, which has NOTHING to do with half-naked vampires...
The tumblers, apparently possessed of some sort of artificial plastic intelligence, pop off from the little cup holders on the side of the dish drainer and skittle across the floor like they are alive, which they probably are.
I scoop them up.
I dip them back into the sinkful of scalding water (at least that is what everyone tells me the temperature is when they are compelled to washup something that is tardy to the party and I'm done with the dishes).
I wash them and rinse them and reattach them to the sides of the dish drainer.
Alas, it doesn't last.
The bliss of drying dishes is marred by the sound of the tumblers smacking the porcelain tiles once again.
Or, in a total change of direction, they slip off and roll around the counter knocking the recycling off into the floor.
Either way, I'm bending over scooping up something from the tiles and wiping up little droplets of bone breaking liquid that will certainly come back to create agony if given half a chance.
I'm ready for some entrepreneur to get on the stick and create the Jetson's kitchen for me. While I enjoy cooking, I must admit I'd like the convenience of having Rosie the Robot to whip up a sumptuous 7-course meal from leftovers. I'd also like a self cleaning kitchen.
Sorry, juvenile pun at your expense. But you smiled and that makes it worth it.
I have wondered if someone could take the time to invent a drying station for the home kitchen so that things could roll through like a small pizza oven set to warm, not bake, the dishes. The convenient little machine could also stack them and put them away.
But, if we are going for the gusto, how about the Star Trek version of dishes. Some aspiring wanna-be rich kid needs to invent the replicator. Then everything from soup to nuts and the serving dishes that hold them would be returned to their subatomic state to be rendered into something else at a later date.
And, since atoms are notoriously clean, even waste products and garbage could be similarly reduced, reused and recycled. No more landfills!
Oh, well.
The last of the dishes calls to me since I was a complete slacker and didn't do a single dish before bed last night.
Does that make me a bad person or simply a hopeful one? Hoping that by morning they would have done themselves or been subatomically rearranged into fat free Belgian waffles?
August 30, 2010
And how was YOUR day...?
the setting: the van
the event: an unplanned trip to the pediatrician
the time: midday
Our story begins when a sweaty, tired woman goes to the school in said sweaty clothes to pick up her sick son. This woman is no fashion plate in these exercise clothes and would not even get rave reviews from the pigsty in the smelly shorts and lizard t-shirt she is wearing but the nurse said her kid was having trouble breathing and he was coughing all morning. Fashion isn't the issue when your kid is having problems.
Flying down to the school in a light drip drop of rain to pick up said boy and bring him home to get an appointment since the doc won't take walk-ins under ANY circumstances, I call the office and explain the circumstances for seeking an audience with a health practioner. By the time we pulled into the driveway, the audience is granted and we are lucky enough to get the 1:30 p.m. slot in Huntsville for TODAY.
Dashing hubby comes home long enough to transfer to the bed, change the soggy rotten teenager and transfer him back to the chair for the ride over to Huntsville.
This is the part of the story where you need both popcorn and a drink.
We leave the driveway. Hmmm. Is that water on the windshield? Must be condensation since the meteorologists didn't say anything I recall about us having rain today.
Moments later, I notice a few raindrops forming into little lakes on the windshield. It's just sprinkling. Like a leaky pigeon.
By the time we are out on Highway 72 nearly to the I-65 turnoff to Huntsville, it comes a pretty healthy shower. Crap. This is not good.
Traffic is heavy with semi trucks and loaded trailers all going about 75 miles an hour with lesser vehicles just hoping to share a portion of THEIR road with them. I merge into traffic.
This merge is more blind faith and trust with a little pixie dust thrown in than actual clarity of sight since the windshield wipers on the van do not work. Nope. Not one blade even twitches when I test out the switch to see if maybe today a wiping miracle will occur.
Nothing happens. Nothing.
Due to the rivulets of water cascading down the windshield, there is only one alternative with a sick kid. I have to roll down the windows. Lovely…in that way that I mean "NOT"! The driver's side window is down all the way so I can be fully pelted by the rain instead of just enjoying a sudden deluge. It is also down so I can make the attempt to bypass viewing the highway through the windshield so I can see the white stripes on the road and allegedly keep to my own lane in an attempt to prevent the van from becoming an attractive hood ornament for a Peterbilt.
Have you ever driven a car 70 miles an hour with semi trucks on all sides and you lack front window visibility? I have. It's more of an adrenalin rush than anything you can possibly come up with. You simply can't top this one. Theme parks and reality TV have nothing on this experience. And if you are constipated, you won't be for long with this little scenario moving things right along.
I have had proximity induced semi truck-phobia ever since I was laid up in a wreck with one about 16 years ago. The proximity of the truck back then made me jittery now anytime those big rigs get a pinch too close. Frustratingly, they never have found the jackass that did the deed either. Some foreign driver with no legitimate paperwork. Gotta love "illegal immigrants". Buttheads.
So there I am, my precious cargo in imminent peril as I attempt to keep from becoming a ping pong ball between the flatbeds on the trailers on the way to see his doctor.
With me so far…? Good. This is just beginning to get good.
People who drive the highways and byways of our interstate system are a wonderful bunch. They will cut you off with less than 6 inches of clearance as they cross ALL THREE LANES to get to the exit they were in too much of a hurry to plan ahead to meet.
Yeah.
In the rain.
With NO visibility.
And my ailing son in the van with me.
Zero fun.
I knew this would happen.
When the wipers on the 1994 Dodge van gave up the ghost, I knew there would be some reason I'd have to drive the van some distance in a driving rainstorm.
The best part is that the rain stopped when we got to the doc's office. And promptly started right back up when we were leaving.
I am beyond 'white-knuckled' on this ride.
I think my entire body is pale. Okay, fair enough. Paler than USUAL.
And I'm reasonably sure that if I'd had any pee left that hadn't already been scared out of me by the close order drill ordeal with the semi's I would have peed my pants.
As it is, I feel like I have run a marathon, won the Superbowl and flown to the moon and back all in one shot. I'm not built for this kind of labor.
Pray for sunny days and rainy nights. It's the only way I'll live through the continued demise of the van.
I'm reasonably sure that the day is not far off where I'll be scooting along the pavement on my fanny leaving remnants of me and the van on the road behind me as it finally decides to deconstruct on the molecular level.
When that day comes, don't be surprised to find me laughing hysterically on the side of the road while a stranger blots my skinned up butt with some used Hardee's napkins from the
floorboard of their pickup truck until the paramedics arrive.
Just another day in paradise.
the event: an unplanned trip to the pediatrician
the time: midday
Our story begins when a sweaty, tired woman goes to the school in said sweaty clothes to pick up her sick son. This woman is no fashion plate in these exercise clothes and would not even get rave reviews from the pigsty in the smelly shorts and lizard t-shirt she is wearing but the nurse said her kid was having trouble breathing and he was coughing all morning. Fashion isn't the issue when your kid is having problems.
Flying down to the school in a light drip drop of rain to pick up said boy and bring him home to get an appointment since the doc won't take walk-ins under ANY circumstances, I call the office and explain the circumstances for seeking an audience with a health practioner. By the time we pulled into the driveway, the audience is granted and we are lucky enough to get the 1:30 p.m. slot in Huntsville for TODAY.
Dashing hubby comes home long enough to transfer to the bed, change the soggy rotten teenager and transfer him back to the chair for the ride over to Huntsville.
This is the part of the story where you need both popcorn and a drink.
We leave the driveway. Hmmm. Is that water on the windshield? Must be condensation since the meteorologists didn't say anything I recall about us having rain today.
Moments later, I notice a few raindrops forming into little lakes on the windshield. It's just sprinkling. Like a leaky pigeon.
By the time we are out on Highway 72 nearly to the I-65 turnoff to Huntsville, it comes a pretty healthy shower. Crap. This is not good.
Traffic is heavy with semi trucks and loaded trailers all going about 75 miles an hour with lesser vehicles just hoping to share a portion of THEIR road with them. I merge into traffic.
This merge is more blind faith and trust with a little pixie dust thrown in than actual clarity of sight since the windshield wipers on the van do not work. Nope. Not one blade even twitches when I test out the switch to see if maybe today a wiping miracle will occur.
Nothing happens. Nothing.
Due to the rivulets of water cascading down the windshield, there is only one alternative with a sick kid. I have to roll down the windows. Lovely…in that way that I mean "NOT"! The driver's side window is down all the way so I can be fully pelted by the rain instead of just enjoying a sudden deluge. It is also down so I can make the attempt to bypass viewing the highway through the windshield so I can see the white stripes on the road and allegedly keep to my own lane in an attempt to prevent the van from becoming an attractive hood ornament for a Peterbilt.
Have you ever driven a car 70 miles an hour with semi trucks on all sides and you lack front window visibility? I have. It's more of an adrenalin rush than anything you can possibly come up with. You simply can't top this one. Theme parks and reality TV have nothing on this experience. And if you are constipated, you won't be for long with this little scenario moving things right along.
I have had proximity induced semi truck-phobia ever since I was laid up in a wreck with one about 16 years ago. The proximity of the truck back then made me jittery now anytime those big rigs get a pinch too close. Frustratingly, they never have found the jackass that did the deed either. Some foreign driver with no legitimate paperwork. Gotta love "illegal immigrants". Buttheads.
So there I am, my precious cargo in imminent peril as I attempt to keep from becoming a ping pong ball between the flatbeds on the trailers on the way to see his doctor.
With me so far…? Good. This is just beginning to get good.
People who drive the highways and byways of our interstate system are a wonderful bunch. They will cut you off with less than 6 inches of clearance as they cross ALL THREE LANES to get to the exit they were in too much of a hurry to plan ahead to meet.
Yeah.
In the rain.
With NO visibility.
And my ailing son in the van with me.
Zero fun.
I knew this would happen.
When the wipers on the 1994 Dodge van gave up the ghost, I knew there would be some reason I'd have to drive the van some distance in a driving rainstorm.
The best part is that the rain stopped when we got to the doc's office. And promptly started right back up when we were leaving.
I am beyond 'white-knuckled' on this ride.
I think my entire body is pale. Okay, fair enough. Paler than USUAL.
And I'm reasonably sure that if I'd had any pee left that hadn't already been scared out of me by the close order drill ordeal with the semi's I would have peed my pants.
As it is, I feel like I have run a marathon, won the Superbowl and flown to the moon and back all in one shot. I'm not built for this kind of labor.
Pray for sunny days and rainy nights. It's the only way I'll live through the continued demise of the van.
I'm reasonably sure that the day is not far off where I'll be scooting along the pavement on my fanny leaving remnants of me and the van on the road behind me as it finally decides to deconstruct on the molecular level.
When that day comes, don't be surprised to find me laughing hysterically on the side of the road while a stranger blots my skinned up butt with some used Hardee's napkins from the
floorboard of their pickup truck until the paramedics arrive.
Just another day in paradise.
Two Miles with an Assassin
It is kind of cloudy today and the temperatures are low enough that even though sweat will be part of the equation, I didn't think I'd be par boiling in my own juices. It's the thought that counts, right?
Gypsy started to gambol about barking in a high pitched yip guaranteed to peel the lining out of your eardrums and the eardrums of people two or three blocks away. She loves to go out for a walk. It's the most thrilling part of your average dog day for her. Pooping and peeing on every vacant lot and byway is sort of a doggie newspaper headline and she is determined not to miss any publication deadlines just because I had leg cramps during the night. My suffering means NOTHING to her.
I honestly wonder if she has reserve holding tanks for the poop and pee since she manages to go multiple times during our walk and it's never just a few drops or plops along the way. It's more like cups and handfuls... not that I'm anxious to measure or hold any... but you get the idea.
Holy crapola dog!!!! How can ANY dog have that much poop and pee?? Is this some breed specific trait or is it true of all dogs? I think I need a governmental research grant to examine the output levels by breed for a comparison study.
We walk about a quarter mile and Gypsy looks back at me over her left shoulder. She is smiling her evil smile. I knew she would make me pay for going out on a cloudy morning.
It's an opportunity for Gypsy to show the other dogs chained up in 'jail' in either their play yards behind fences or indoors behind spit covered windows that she (neener neener!) got to go outside while they have to stay inside and just hope that someone will turn on the vacuum cleaner for them to attack.
Sort of a nasty little game of "watch how I'm in charge" begins where she will lunge forward, backward, or sideways to impress the 'inmates' with her complete freedom to maul, maim and murder her erstwhile owner.
Foolish mortals we. Our delusion of pet ownership is an invitation for our canid companions to teach us humility in plays. We are not in charge and going for a walk reinforces that lesson.
So, she's in charge. Well, good for her. I almost hit the ground several times as Gypsy zigged and zagged her way toward her ultimate goal of worldwide domination for the furry Assassins club. Her speed changed randomly from a pitiful walk to a full on gallop then back to a leisurely lope. The idea is to confuse the enemy and make them ripe for the pickings.
I have seen her evil smile several times today. I believe it was the broadest it has ever been. Her ears even curled up in a decidedly wicked fashion to resemble nothing so much as a pair of fur covered devil horns.
Uncertain as to why she is trying to murder the hand that feeds her (along with the rest of the body), I bring her home after today's appointed route is completed.
Did I mention we did two miles today? Yep. We were about 1/2 mile into the adventure of murderous intent when it started to rain.
Far from spoiling the evil intentions of the canid minion, I believe the rain simply washed away the veneer of domestication that prevents her from taking full advantage of her opportunities for conquest on a daily basis.
When the pee and poop factory was finally empty and we were within a scant couple of blocks of the house, Princess Pig was 'exhausted' from her ordeal and turned to me with that expression of mingled innocence and sheer cunning that says "Carry Me!"
Uh, I don't think so, you reject from the mafia. Carry your own cunning evil on your own malevolent legs! I know what you have in mind. A nice nap today followed by trampling me and stealing my covers tonight in the bed.
STOP SMILING AT ME THAT WAY!!!
The Hounds of the Baskervilles have nothing on this dog.
Gypsy started to gambol about barking in a high pitched yip guaranteed to peel the lining out of your eardrums and the eardrums of people two or three blocks away. She loves to go out for a walk. It's the most thrilling part of your average dog day for her. Pooping and peeing on every vacant lot and byway is sort of a doggie newspaper headline and she is determined not to miss any publication deadlines just because I had leg cramps during the night. My suffering means NOTHING to her.
I honestly wonder if she has reserve holding tanks for the poop and pee since she manages to go multiple times during our walk and it's never just a few drops or plops along the way. It's more like cups and handfuls... not that I'm anxious to measure or hold any... but you get the idea.
Holy crapola dog!!!! How can ANY dog have that much poop and pee?? Is this some breed specific trait or is it true of all dogs? I think I need a governmental research grant to examine the output levels by breed for a comparison study.
We walk about a quarter mile and Gypsy looks back at me over her left shoulder. She is smiling her evil smile. I knew she would make me pay for going out on a cloudy morning.
It's an opportunity for Gypsy to show the other dogs chained up in 'jail' in either their play yards behind fences or indoors behind spit covered windows that she (neener neener!) got to go outside while they have to stay inside and just hope that someone will turn on the vacuum cleaner for them to attack.
Sort of a nasty little game of "watch how I'm in charge" begins where she will lunge forward, backward, or sideways to impress the 'inmates' with her complete freedom to maul, maim and murder her erstwhile owner.
Foolish mortals we. Our delusion of pet ownership is an invitation for our canid companions to teach us humility in plays. We are not in charge and going for a walk reinforces that lesson.
So, she's in charge. Well, good for her. I almost hit the ground several times as Gypsy zigged and zagged her way toward her ultimate goal of worldwide domination for the furry Assassins club. Her speed changed randomly from a pitiful walk to a full on gallop then back to a leisurely lope. The idea is to confuse the enemy and make them ripe for the pickings.
I have seen her evil smile several times today. I believe it was the broadest it has ever been. Her ears even curled up in a decidedly wicked fashion to resemble nothing so much as a pair of fur covered devil horns.
Uncertain as to why she is trying to murder the hand that feeds her (along with the rest of the body), I bring her home after today's appointed route is completed.
Did I mention we did two miles today? Yep. We were about 1/2 mile into the adventure of murderous intent when it started to rain.
Far from spoiling the evil intentions of the canid minion, I believe the rain simply washed away the veneer of domestication that prevents her from taking full advantage of her opportunities for conquest on a daily basis.
When the pee and poop factory was finally empty and we were within a scant couple of blocks of the house, Princess Pig was 'exhausted' from her ordeal and turned to me with that expression of mingled innocence and sheer cunning that says "Carry Me!"
Uh, I don't think so, you reject from the mafia. Carry your own cunning evil on your own malevolent legs! I know what you have in mind. A nice nap today followed by trampling me and stealing my covers tonight in the bed.
STOP SMILING AT ME THAT WAY!!!
The Hounds of the Baskervilles have nothing on this dog.
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