spin cycle - edit

One of those Saturdays - GAME DAY! I had tentatively planned to get up really early to hike (because the trail is otherwise not that pleasant on Saturdays, too crowded and hot) but it's already 7:40 so I guess that's out. Besides which, am supposed to meet MIL and SILs at the Recycling Fair so we can check out Mindy Jaffe's "red gold" - a species of red worm that's supposed to shake up the blueworm colony stagnating in our bins. Other morning plans include being a jerk in the laundry room, working out which day I'm on, and finding a cool dry place to run. It's been a week since Niketown, and I JUST got my legs back. Can we say out of shape?

The one other thing I am supposed to do - but am not sure I will get around to or have the stomach for - is hunting down the B-52 that flew into our living room last night. The whole incident made me cranky for two reasons - 1) I have one in my car, and every morning we have this sort of fight for control of the dashboard area. I'm like, get the fork out of my way, you disgusting lower-than-lowest creature on Nature's totem pole! ... and he's like, I'm equipped to survive nuclear fallout, so call me all the names you want, missy. And it goes on. And his brother-in-law taking over the living room was too bold a move for my taste. And 2) I could have gotten that thing myself - it was a sitting duck on the wall above the fish tank - but I deferred to The Man (even ran away for good measure) because I did the Wifely Duty by attending his company poker tourney last night, so I thought I'd throw some nice Husbandly Duty his way. Well, I cruised behind the only lockable door in our apartment for about 45 minutes (Secret #11: I love O Magazine) and when I came out, he was asleep. Zzzzzzzzz.

"Did you get it?" I asked. (I almost never wake people up, because that's rude. But this was important.)

"No. It flew behind your bookshelf." Zzzzzzzzz. Just like that.

"WHICH BOOKSHELF?"

"Huh? The one by the fishtank." Zzzzzzzzzzz. I swear, this man can fall asleep in the middle of a sentence and sometimes does.

"IT'S STILL IN THE LIVING ROOM?"

"Don't worry, babe. Callie will get it." Zzzzzzzzz.

I run out to the living room to make sure Callie is doing her Catly Duty because S isn't doing his Husbandly one. Callie is asleep outside on the chaise.

[Pause while Tevye and Golde's song from "Fiddler on the Roof" plays in my head. 'Do you love meeeeeeee?' ... and pause to improvise: 'Cause if you loved me, you'd be catching this roach, not sawing those logs ...'] Is there anyone in this apartment besides me who 1) isn't asleep or 2) is bothered by a roach the size of your mom crawling around my Usagi Yojimbo collection? The answer was no. Bless his heart, the dog did volunteer, but he can't get his snout under the bottom shelf, so color him useless.

So I flipped on the living room light and sat down at the computer (his; no way in hell was I going to turn my back on that thing) and didn't go to sleep until I'd caught up on blogs, checked e-mail, read the news, found a recipe for turducken, and smashed a tiny roach near S.'s laptop (and now that I think about it, rudely left it there for him to find this morning.) If it sounds like our house is overrun with vermin, well, it is. OK not really. We have two furry kids and now a worm bin to contend with, so things are crawling out of every which hole in the wall.

Anyone wanna potluck at our place? =9

For now I guess I'll skip the search, although this random thought just popped into my head: Why is the world (or maybe just Makiki) overrun with brown things with hairy legs? Why can't things like bunnies wander into my living room late at night? Bunnies, or a nice, polite chinchilla. My friend in the building next door is so lucky. She lives on the top floor, so they don't get many bugs at all.

Must be nice.

Off to grab the gold ...

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11:38 a.m.: Never send a man to do a woman's job.

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That's right. And after I killed Spencer (I've decided from here on in, all vermin that deserve to be killed are named Spencer Pratt) I bedded my new wormies (one thought on the Recycling Fair: no wonder admission is free), and after that, I cleaned the kitchen (WetJet the floor, Cloroxed the counters, emptied the dishwasher and washed the remaining dishes by hand, found lids for the pots, pans, Corningware and Tupperware, and organized them all the best I could in the low cupboards.) Vacuumed. Took laundry to the 'mat where I BROKE MY SECOND WASHING MACHINE IN A MONTH on the exact same thing: a moderate load of bath towels. Don't even ask me. Don't even ask.

Ran a paltry mile, then showered and went dress shopping for my MOH dress for Peahen's wedding, coming up in Oct. Cinnamon Girl, my used-to-be-favorite, was a big disappointment. I don't remember all their dresses being see-thru and/or so maternity-looking. Mom asked if there was something already in my closet that I might wear, but what's the fun in that?

Picked up take-out and had dinner at home with Kona, Callie, and as much Gilmore as I could manage before falling asleep in my Original Chopped Salad.

Except for the washer, 'twas a great Saturday. I'll say it again: I love football season.

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By the way, Secret #12: I'm glad Compadres closed. I hated the restaurant for lots of reasons that weren't the restaurant's fault. Bad dates, cheap dates, stupid dates, horrible dates, and one memorably uncomfortable work Christmas party. Why did we always end up at Compadres? By the way, some things were the restaurant's fault, like pickled carrots as a nachos topping, and consistently shitty service. Good riddance.