humor

The Pool Rule

~ thedailydish ~ Leave a comment

On Saturday we went swimming.  And by ‘we’  I really mean my husband & our daughters.  I just sat on the bleachers and watched.  It’s not that I don’t like to swim; even with my wacky ear, I do.  And our community pool is nice.  The reason I skipped swimming is because of a certain pool policy.  What I call The Pool Rule.  The Pool Rule states that everyone w/ chin-length hair or longer MUST WEAR A SWIM CAP.

This woman likes her swim cap. I do not like mine.

When I first learned of The Pool Rule, I tried to be a good sport.  Swim caps help prevent hair from clogging the pool’s filter, keeping the pool working and limiting nastiness for the unfortunate soul having to clean.  I didn’t argue.  Even though my only option at the time was to borrow a swim cap from the Lost & Found, and the only one that fit was plastic and had ear flaps.  Getting it on nearly pulled half the hair from my head.  I put on that cap!  My kids wanted to swim with their momma and I wasn’t going to disappoint my husband.  But I vowed that next time  – if there were a next time – I’d bring $$ to buy my own.

The next visit, I remembered my swim cap money.  YOU KNOW I DID.  I bought a stretchy spandex number from the pool office, in black to match my swimsuit.  I put it on, got in the water and it promptly fell off.  I put it back on, dove underwater and it came off again.  I put it back on again.  And again.  I spent half the swim session retrieving my cap from the pool floor.  But I didn’t give up!  Even though the swim cap wouldn’t stay on, I wore it the next time, and the next.  Until finally one Saturday I’d had enough.  I was done dealing with the indignity of that useless cap and said NO MORE.  So now I sit & watch.

The Pool Rule may make sense in theory, but when I spend half my time in the pool retrieving a swim cap and replacing it what exactly is it accomplishing?  I’m losing far more hair in the pool doing the ON-OFF-ON-OFF routine than I ever would going without.  And if the ultimate goal is to minimize hair in the filter, why stop at swim caps?  Wouldn’t swim SHIRTS be applicable too?

Swim shirt not optional

Until then I will be on the bleachers.

Spider Village & Ladybug Land

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When I was little I was deathly afraid of spiders.  So much so, that when I found a big ugly one on me in the night (circa 1983), I moved into my sister’s bedroom and slept on her floor for a whole month.  And no, it wasn’t the least bit comfortable.

As I’ve aged I’ve gotten past the terror a spider can induce.  I’ve matured.  I’ve come to realize that spiders are small creatures who for the most part mean us no harm.  We are the scary big monsters THEY cower in fear from and try to avoid.  Part of this is hogwash, I know, part is rationalization.  But for the most part it works.  I can calmly shoo a spider away when need be – or even catch it gently in a cup, paper pressed against the opening, to escort it outside.  I never kill spiders – they have their purpose after all, and I much prefer them to the biting insects they call food.

Anyway, the reason I am sharing this is b/c I spend a goodly portion of each day tending to a fire which consumes vast quantities of wood.  I wrote about this whole wood situation before (feel free to refresh your memories here).  We keep most of our wood stacked outside, but weekly my husband & I must bring in a new stash for burning.  This wood is home to many, many spiders.  For safety (and peace of mind) I wear protective leather work gloves while shifting wood, lest I get bitten by a startled arachnid.  But I can’t get past the paranoid fear that one day I will encounter a brown recluse and wind up losing an arm.

I know this is paranoia at its best.  These little spiders are terrified of me, stomping around in my heavy snow boots, cursing audibly with each heaving wheelbarrow of wood.  But it remains so firmly planted in my psyche that any time I get a tiny unexplained cut on my hand, I watch it the same way an underpaid office worker watches the clock.  I check it 60 times an hour, just waiting for it to change. IS IT GETTING BIGGER??  IT’S LOOKING BIGGER!! IS IT BUBBLING??!!

All of this is nonsense, of course.  I scratched my hand sweeping up debris from the floor, or caught it on [insert whatever it was] but the fear remains.  It doesn’t help that all this firewood we haul inside is stored in the hearth in our kitchen.  The room in which I spend most of my time.  And now that this firewood is stacked inside the warm & pleasant walls of our heated home, the formerly hibernating army of spiders living inside said wood is now WAKING UP.  And converting my kitchen into their Spider Village.

In the changing light you see them.  The vast network of spiderwebs dangling above our heads, crisscrossing the room from the windows to the doors.  I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been standing at the island, chopping or kneading or simply going about my business, only to look up and find a spider dangling inches from my face.  Looking at me as if to say, “What’s for Dinner?”

For the most part I don’t mind living amongst so many many-leggeds.  Sure a few of them are HUGE (we’re talking inches) but for the most part they’re very small.  And they do in fact seem to be helping us with the bugs.  Not that you’d expect a home in the dead winter of Maine to have an insect issue, but for some odd reason we do have them.  Not gross ones, no cockroaches or big scary beetles or anything.  No, we have ladybugs.

We noticed them right after we moved in.  It was hard not to, seeing as they’d taken over our attic.  At some point in the course of The Dole House’s long and illustrious history, these ladybugs took up residence and now, 600 generations later, we’re still sheltering their kin.  It was odd at first, finding we had so much company.  But over the past (almost) 18 months, we’ve gotten used to each other.  We no longer think it strange, the small piles of expired ladybugs trapped between the window frames and storms.  The ladybug corpses littering the window sills (which must be dusted periodically) or the occasional ladybug you find clutching onto a curtain.  For some reason, our younger daughter’s bedroom seems to be the ladybugs favorite room in the house.  Ladybug Land.  Our little girl spends her nights counting the tiny red dots on her ceiling, watching them weave their way from point to point.  They’re sweet really.  Perhaps if you look carefully you’ll find another world living inside your home, too.

Jealousy.

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SO.  I’m standing in the kitchen this morning, enjoying a nice banana scone, when in walks my blog.  He looks awful and he smells even worse, like he’s been up half the night drinking.  He looks at me and announces in a wounded voice that we’re 2 weeks into the new year and – he says – I’ve done just one post.

YES!  I retort, but Interview with a Roller Girl wasn’t some slapdash diatribe regaling the world w/my favorite choice of deodorant (cucumber green tea); it was THOUGHT PROVOKING STUFF.  With formatting, photos and everything.

He scoffs, and proceeds to tell me that my friend Kim did most of the work.  Then he helps himself to the last scone.

I am stunned.  THE LAST SCONE?!  Now that’s going a bit too far.  I grab him by the arm of his dirty shirt and toss him out into the snow.  Deaf to his screams of LET ME BACK IN YOU SELF-ABSORBED MORON! I lean against the counter and think…

Hmmm..  I have been spending a lot of time lately with his brother.  Why, just this morning, when I wrote that banana scone recipe, I did find myself lingering..

BUT. can you blame me?  I mean, seriously.  I’m only human.

And then all at once – it dawns on me.  He’s jealous!  My blog! after all these years..  He’s feeling NEEDY.  While whiling away the hours with his brother, whipping up intoxicating creations for the salt deprived, my poor blog is.. Lonely.  Oh, the poor guy.

It’s not that I never think of him – I DO!  It’s just that I’ve been SO BUSY!  Cooking it up every day with his brother takes a lot out of a girl.  Yes that sounds bad, I admit, but.. I assure you it’s innocent.  Plus, there’s been the new puppy. Taking care of her has been totally absorbing, and  – What do you mean, what do I mean? Roxy.  The puppy.  The NEW PUPPY.  Oh?  I didn’t tell you?  (awkward)

(sound of crickets chirping)

Sooo, here’s Roxy!

No, not last week.  It’s been um.. more like a month.  Sorry about that.  I did post it on the OTHER Daily Dish.  So.  Yep…..

Okay.  I get it.  I understand.  My blog is tired of feeling sloughed off like an unwanted heel callous.  You know what?  I love my blog.  Even though I’ve been distracted, and haven’t been as attentive as in the past, that doesn’t mean I’ve forsaken him.  Like most marriages, this relationship between me & the blog is.. well, it’s special.  So I am resolving that this new year we start fresh.  I may have temporarily forgotten what it’s like to woo, but that doesn’t mean I can’t court with the best of them.  I can!  I CAN!  Blog baby, it’s gonna be different this year.  More daily contact — REALLY!  I’ll even take my socks off before touching your keyboard — b/c 2011, it’s all about YOU.

Big Foot? That You?

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Last night my husband & I were out on our back porch, stargazing.  It was late (around midnight), and dark.  After viewing through the binoculars and telescope for a while, we decided to relax for a few minutes before turning in.  We’re sitting there quietly, when we hear this rustling noise coming from the other side of the yard, maybe 60-70 ft away.  The first time we heard it, neither of us said anything, but after the 2nd or 3rd time, my husband asked, “Do you hear that?”  I said, “Yes.”  But it was hard to make out what it could be.  We keep a box fan in the room right above the porch, and the whirring noise of the motor was drowning out the sound.  Another rustle.  Then another.  My husband announced he was going in to get the flashlight.  “But what if it’s a Yeti?” I joked.  He went inside.  The rustling noises continued.  Sitting there in the dark, alone, I was getting a bit nervous.  I started thinking about Big Foot.  You know, I don’t think they’ve ever truly discounted his existence completely..  What if…?  I counted the seconds.  John seemed to be taking his sweet time.  That big flashlight was just in the adjacent room, what could be taking him so long?  I heard the fan switch off above me.  What the hell-?  HE’S UPSTAIRS?!  Another few minutes ticked by.  I was starting to sweat, wondering whether I’d be carted off by the time he got back.  The rustling noises had increased slightly in intensity and volume, perhaps b/c the fan was off – or maybe b/c Big Foot was getting hungrier.  And Closer.  FINALLY. John stepped back out onto the porch.  I breathed an audible sigh of relief and said, “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?”  He explained he had to go to the bathroom.  I told him I could have been eaten by the Yeti, which at that point was nearly visible across the yard (in my mind, anyway).  He laughed and sat down beside me.  Very quietly we counted 1,2,3, then ON with the flashlight.  Light blazed across the yard, illuminating the guinea pigs’ pen, and one extremely determined red fox perched right on top!  The fox stopped pawing the lid and looked up, as if to say. “Excuse me?”  We stared at each other for several seconds, before John stood up to make chase.  The fox took off, hesitantly, and we went to check on our poor pets.  They were all fine.  Fortunately the handmade pen is super sturdy and has a thick, wire lid for exactly this purpose (to thwart would-be predators).  I petted the piggies, and then worried out loud about the fox coming back.  My husband reassured me, “Oh, I’m sure he will, babe.  He’s probably here every night.”

Grease stains, Ice cream cones and Walmart – Oh MY.

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A couple months ago, I was in a pickle.  I’d put a pair of pants up for sale on eBay before noticing they had a subtle grease spot on one of the legs.  What can I say, I’VE BEEN DISTRACTED.  As luck would have it, the pants sold and I was left in a quandary.  I couldn’t sell misrepresented merchandise, but I didn’t want to forgo the sale if I could help it.  So I looked online, searching for a sure-fire way to get that grease out.  Trust me when I say there are a lot of questionable suggestions out there.  Everything from talcum powder to WD-40 to Cheez Whiz is supposed to remove grease.  But I needed foolproof.  I didn’t have time to spare, and I didn’t want to further damage the pants in the process.  Several websites spoke glowingly of a product I’d never heard of before.

Dawn Power Dissolver.

Dawn Power Dissolver is a spray cleaner made to remove caked-on crap from dishes, but people online raved about it taking grease off ovens and more importantly, OUT OF CLOTHES.  I wasn’t optimistic, but figured it was worth a shot.  It wasn’t expensive.  And if it worked…  OOooh!!  So I googled the stuff, trying to find someplace to buy it.  The only store w/in miles?  Walmart.

I don’t normally shop at Walmart.  Apart from what it’s done to local economies, I hate the parking lot.  Nowhere else on earth (apart from Christmas Tree Shops) are pedestrians put at greater risk.  But I needed THAT SPRAY.  I told myself I’d just be quick – in and out, then home.  But being at the Walmart here (versus the old one in Philly) was sort of a novel experience.  Whereas the Philly Walmart offers rock-bottom prices in filthy surroundings with hordes of half-dressed shoppers, the store here is ginormous.  It’s new and super clean.  And, perhaps b/c of the cooler climate, the clientele here wear more clothes.  I may hate Walmart, but I love bargains.  So after I’d picked up a bottle of spray, I got a cart and tooled around the NASCAR-sized arena.  I bought a new mop.  Some hamburger buns.  And then I remembered my older daughter wanted ice cream cones.  She’d been asking for them for a week, I’d kept forgetting.  I found them, helpfully located at the end of the frozen foods aisle.  They had several boxes, I reached for some at eye-height, feeling joyful as I put those Joy Cones into the cart and proceeded to checkout.

I returned home to launder the pants.  The Dawn Power Dissolver worked WONDERS! removing the grease stain completely w/ no ill effects whatsoever.  My daughter enjoyed her ice cream cones, whilst I mopped happily and my husband grilled burgers for our buns.  We all sang Kumbayah and .. and… AND!

The first part of my story is completely true.  Dawn Power Dissolver IS the best grease removing spray in the world.  I sprayed it on those pants, waited 10 minutes and then washed them.  The stain came out like magic, I marveled at my good fortune, and everyone was happy.  As for everything else..  ALL LIES.  The mop broke the first time I used it, the burger buns were stale – but the biggest kicker were those cones.

Does this look like the face of a happy child?

She is, after all, holding a box of JOY.  You’d think she’d be a bit thrilled.  But no.  And why?  B/c Walmart and the Joy Cone Company played a terrible trick on me.  Oh yes they did!  And here is the rest of my story.  (ALL TRUE.)

Look at the package.

Pretty, right?  Attractively colored, sure to please.  Placed at eye-height, just where I’d grab it and stick it in my cart.  It’s a box of ice cream cones, for pete’s sake, what the heck could be wrong?!  BUT IF YOU LOOK CLOSELY..

You will see each and every one of those 60 (yes, 60) cones is actually .. smaller than the size of my THUMB.

Here is one of the cones beside our (quite average sized) ice cream scoop.

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

Although my husband was simply overjoyed by these shrimpy JOY cones, thinking they would restrict our daughters’ consumption of ice cream significantly, my daughters & I were not amused. AT ALL.

Those tiny ice cream cones might look cute, and charming, and if they were sturdy, they indeed might hold something other than the two drops of air inside.  They might even hold – gasp – a spoonful of ice cream!  We could have stood round scooping a good cup or two total of ice cream into all 60, placed them in a bowl or on a tray and eaten the whole lot of them, whilst chuckling heartily at the hilarity of it all, snapping pictures, and wondering when we were going to do it all again.  Instead, when I tried spooning the barest wisp of ice cream into a single one of these cones, it left the damn thing in crumbs.  Each of those petite ice cream cones is a ruse, a mere TEASE.  You cannot get ice cream into any of them, without smashing them into smithereens, unless your ice cream is soup.  Whereas most people would chalk all of this up to experience, WHHHOOOPSIE, I bought some tiny ding-dong cones, MY BAD>, I am not one of them.  REMEMBER?? I am a crazy woman having to sell greasy pants on ebay to get by !!!!!! That dollar or two I spent on that box of worthless ice cream cones – and believe me, they are completely worthless, was TOO FREAKING MUCH.  I do not like being had.  Joy Cones, FOR SHAME.  And here’s an idea for you.

Please tell me what I am supposed to do with the remaining 58 minuscule cones I still have in my possession.  B/c apart from the above, I cannot think of a single thing.