I'm at work. Bad girl. Shouldn't be doing this on the job. So what. It's important.
This morning about five minutes after I showed up at work I received a phone call from a dear friend of mine. She was on the way to the hospital for surgery for a brain aneurysm. It felt she was calling to say goodbye. And yet we talked about having lunch soon. I feel so sad and helpless. It's hard to work when you think about one your best friends laying on an operating table and wondering if she'll come out of it. She had no choice.
Keep this dear, sweet, friend in your prayers - her name is Kathryn.
Okay - my big brother didn't send me the 9x12 glossy photo. Some other big brother sent it to me. I haven't changed my mind.
Did you hear about Bush going out walking and finding a small boy with a box of puppies. He asked the boy what they were and the boy said "Republicans." The next day Bush invited Cheney to go out walking with him. When he spotted the little boy with the puppies, he told Dick that he really needed to see what was in the box. Cheney approached the box and asked the boy what they were. The boy responded "Democrats." Bush was a bit miffed about this and asked the boy why he told him the day before that they were "Republicans" The boy looked Bush in the eye and replied, "today they have opened their eyes."
Enough said. Big Brother probably won't speak to me again. And, I'll probably get booted out of Texas next month.
Allright who did it? Who set me up? Well you got me. I opened that envelope with the questionable return address. The one that stated on the outside "Photos Do Not Bend." Aaaaaacchhh. A 9 x 12 glossy photo. There's a note on the bottom... "To: M.... thank you for your early commitment and dedication as a Charter Member of the campaign in California. Grassroots leaders like you are the key to building a winning team. Best Wishes, Laura Bush... George Bush." So far I have kept politics out of this blog. I don't do politics. But my brother does. Okay big brother, did you do this to me?????
Speaking of which today I was on the BART... me with 7 other red hatters. We were scrunched in between all the war protestors... okay enough politics. No comment.
On another note, I have this loyalty to my breakfast cereal. I find one brand, one flavor, decide I like it, and eat nothing but that cereal for breakfast for months... sometimes years. My morning choice since I joined Weight Watchers 3 years ago has been Kashi Good Friends. Last week I decided I was ready for a change. I purchased a package of Nature's Path Organic Optimum Zen Cereal, Cranberry Ginger "for inner harmony." I can do ZEN. After all I'm taking yoga lessons once a week so Zen would be good. This morning I was ready for the Zen experience. I opened the cardboard, flip tab. Reached in to open the inner plastic bag. Pulled, tugged and struggled for a good five minutes. No luck. This was not a Zen moment. Then I saw the inside flap with the little picture of Scissors cutting off the corner of a bag. I got my glasses out. "Airtight bags for freshness...cut bag." Now to find the scissors. Let's just say by the time I found the scissors it was not a Zen breakfast and my innards have not harmonized.
So here I am packing for the Snow Train trip to Reno. My suitcase is full of purple clothes and a couple of red hats. I haven't had time to iron so at the suggestion of one of my friends, I toss the below mentioned dress into the suitcase to iron at the hotel. You know how it is when you hand wash something and wring it out right? It kind of comes out like one of those krinkled skirts.
A bit later... at the hotel. I pull the dress out of the suitcase and hang it, thinking perhaps the wrinkles might fall out. Hah.
In the morning, I open the closet door and there it is, still more wrinkled than my high school gym suit. But, the hotel room comes with an iron. I don't iron more than a couple of times a year. I refuse. It's easier just to go out and buy new clothes.
The ironing board screeches as I pry the legs away from the frame. There's a knock on the door. "Housekeeping." I tell them to go away. Don't come back. Maybe I should have invited them in the iron my dress. But no, I'm determined that I can handle this. I plug the iron in and it sputters. I fill the tiny dispenser with water from the bathroom glass. The iron sputters more as water trickles down the side and over onto the board.
Somehow I remembered the advice of Mom that when you iron a dark item, you iron it inside out. So, I place the dress inside out on the board. I lay the iron smack dab in the middle of the front of the dress, steam hissing out all over the place. I lift up the iron. There is the imprint of the iron at least three shades lighter than the surrounding fabric. So I check the other side of the fabric. Hmmm, seems to be an identical imprint on the right side as well.
There's only one way to resolve this mess, other than going out and trying to find another purple garment before lunch and not much chance for success in the retail market in downtown Reno. So I proceed to iron the rest of the dress, careful to hit every square inch so it will all match.
Satisfied that I had covered every detail, I turned the dress right side out. The result is sort of a marbled effect.
Okay, one last effort.... I iron every square inch with the dress right side out. Sorry Mom. It's passable. There's just a bit of dark area around the seams. And if I place a scarf in just the right places it will distract from those areas that are creased into my brain membranes.
No one noticed. Of at least they didn't say anything. You'll have to check the RHS Molls website if your interested.
"Wash separately in cold water” items tend to drift to the bottom of my hamper, remaining there until a there's an accumulation sufficient to fill the industrial sized washer in my apartment complex. Trouble is, the purple dress has lived there for a couple of months and I worry about permanent permeation of eau de dirty laundry. So I decide to wash it. By hand.
I have a small bathroom sink, a very small sink. White (everything in my apartment is white). One capful of Woolite under a typical-apartment-low-pressure stream of cold water and bubbles overflow over the countertop. I dip the purple dress. Bubbles ooze down the sides of the cupboard. Purple bubbles. There is no stopping them.
I squish the dress into the water. The dress bleeds profusely, turning the sink water into a bath of deep dark purple.
I swirl the dress, slowly, careful not to splash. There are already spatters on the mirror.
I pull the stopper and cautiously turn on a slight stream of cold water, hoping to squelch the bubbles. No luck. Bubbles form on bubbles, a mountain now up to my elbows. I slide the bubbles off my arms, piling them on top of the mountain and step back, grabbing a blue and white striped hand towel. The white stripes turn purple as I pat the remaining stubborn bubbles off my arms.
I need a plan. I haven't taken my morning shower so perhaps I should just shower with the dress on. So I gently squeeze out the dress and roll it into the striped towel for transfer to the bathtub.
The towel starts to drip. I heave it into the bathtub. Splat. Purple splatters everywhere, the expensive white bath mat absorbs purple dye as fast as a dry sponge.
I step into the dark puddle of purple now growing bubbles up my leg. Pulling up on the shower valve, I step aside to avoid the initial cold-water blast. Purple spatters up and down the white tub over the white tile, purple water now up over my toes. Darn, I forgot to lift the tub plug latch.
Well, I am in deep trouble now. No way out other than to stand there, rinsing and rinsing until the dress stops bleeding. It doesn't stop. Now frozen from the cold water, I adjust for a warmer temperature, so what if the dress label says to wash in cold water. I can't take it.
I bend down, pushing, squishing the dress, now on my knees on the floor of the tub. My hands are purple. My feet are purple. My body looks as though I am suffering from purple measles.
It’s useless. No way is that purple dye going to quit. I give up, wrap the dress in the now purple and blue striped towel, squeeze out as much as I can and throw it over the shower wall into the sink. Scrub the shower walls, scrub myself, and finish up the shower.
I stand naked over the bathroom sink. Towel and dress have now stained the sink. I squeeze them out again and wrap them in my bath towel which happens to be purple and set them aside on the white toilet seat while I clean the sink.
My pink and white valentine robe hangs behind the bathroom door. I put it on and reach for the purple blob. Purple streaks now run across the toilet seat, down the sides, onto the white linoleum floor. I toss the mess back into the tub and grab the Clorox wipes. All I can think of is how linoleum absorbs stains and I certainly don't want my landlord after me for a new floor.
Meanwhile, the blob sits in the tub, streams of purple leading to the drain. The vicious cycle must be stopped. I gather up the goods once again and, this time, toss them into my white waste basket. Once again I rinse out the tub.
Okay, turning point. How do I dry this dripping purple mess? Can’t leave it hanging in the tub as originally planned. Can’t put it in the dryer for fear it will shrink or leave a purple mess and angry complex residents with lavender underwear. The only thing left is to hang it outside on the deck.
So I carry the wastebasket outside, shake out the dress, place it on a hanger and hang it on the nearest empty plant hook. As I turn away, I hear the drip, drip, drip. I think about how the deck was just re-stained last spring. Oh well, it will have character, that’s what I’ll tell the manager.
Back in the house, I find I must get the Clorox wipes out once again for the purple specks across the white kitchen linoleum, specks that have now been stepped in by Minnie and Rusty and tracked from door to door. I rinse out the wastebasket. My pink and white robe hangs back on the hook, white hearts now accented with tinges of purple.
As I approach my closet to dress for the day I see the new purple pantsuit hanging there. It bears the same tags as the dress. Shall I return it? Or shall I “Wear and Toss?”