Thank you, Alison! I was checking emails while on my break, and your comment on my last post made me hoot! (They are more or less used to me doing stuff like that at work. Hey, I didn’t break out into show tunes; they should be grateful, right?) I didn’t want it to get buried, so it gets recycled as today’s title.
Oh, man, I need to get my glasses changed. The company has an e-newsletter that comes out once a week, and one section has employee-to-employee classifieds. I was reading one ad, then had to stop and shake my head. What I read was, “Kitchen Aid Dishwasher … about 7 years old in great condition … many different cycles … have washed jeans and king bedding with no problems.” Um, Ms. Ravelled, that would be a Kitchen Aid Washer.
And there is another Harley for sale, but we are pretending that we didn’t see it.
In happier news, I ordered two new pairs of clogs through the Dansko Outlet. This is a good thing, because when you leave clogs in a car for extended periods in the Texas heat, the soles implode. Just in case you were wondering. I had one pair where the soles had cracked on one side of one shoe, but the shoe was still wearable. When I took it out of the drawer at work recently, there was a big chunk missing out of that side. [Alternatively, it might simply have met a RUS* with exceptionally square teeth.] Into the trash it went, along with its less-damaged companion. I am down from seven pairs or eight pairs of clogs to (I think) three. Maybe four. There’s another pair in the trunk that are discolored from the salve I used when I was clearing up the athlete’s foot, month after month after month. I need to chuck them out, as well, somewhere that nobody will find them and be tempted to snag them and wear them, because they are probably doubly-toxic: first the fungus, and then the cure.
Needless to say, the new shoes will not be casually thrown into Lorelai’s back seat, unless we find ourselves entering another Ice Age.
The golf ball as massage therapy tool (run up and down my leg, foot, and ankle) is working amazingly well. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but two or three times yesterday, I took the ball out of my drawer at work and made a few quick swipes on my leg.
I figured out my knitting glitch at work and got past it. Haircut went well. Facial went well. Firstborn showed up at the hair magician’s, and from there we went to Chipotle and on to Firstborn’s, where I did two small loads of colored clothes, and we ate (and I promptly devoured 80% or more of the guac) while watching Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
I love it when the smart girl gets the guy. And when he [more or less] deserves her.
This is the part where I have to decide if my hair looks sufficiently nice after the dampening that preceded the cutting, that I do not have to wash it. Particularly since I will be serving in the temple tonight. The headgear for my CPAP has undone most of the lovely symmetry that my hair magician came up with. I don’t know if a fluffing session with my pick and my hairspray is going to be enough to redeem it.
One of the things I am hoping for, when I get my resurrected body, is an endless succession of good hair days. In the meantime, I do what I can to keep the chaos under control. Some days I really miss my short and spiky hair. Other days I want to go for the Emmylou Harris look. Right now I have a nice Bonnie Raitt whirl of silver at my right temple, and I try to show it to good effect.
Must get moving, out of the house, and into Lorelai. They have I-30 shut down to two lanes eastbound at one point, and it adds at least 20 minutes to my drive in the morning.
*RUS: Rodent of Unusual Size, from The Princess Bride, in case you were wondering.