Me? I'm boring because the stomach has been hideous the last few days. That second brain needs some therapy. I suspect my kids will need therapy eventually, too. BUT I am only remarking on this now because I have found the perfect book for captivity.
Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.M. Delafield. It's a blog from the 1920s, I swear. I love this book. I got it from a library yard sale so it smells slightly mildewy which matches the story set in drizzily England. Still, once I'm released from current confinement, I'm putting it out in the sun with lots of baking soda. See? It's inspired me to talk about household matters.
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Big plan for the day: Chop down the peach tree I planted four years ago. The tree is happy, healthy and terrific. Every summer it ends up loaded with peaches. Just about the time the fruit gets to the right size and starts to ripen, the squirrels eat every last peach. AND just to add injury to insult, the buggers break open the pits and leave jagged bits of peach pits all over the deck.
No way I'll be able to outsmart the local squirrels. These guys are ruthless and aggressive. Every plastic garbage can in the neighborhood has squirrel-sized holes in its lid. I'd leave the tree in place because the flowers are pretty and I don't actually hate the squirrels, but the yard is small and the tree takes up a lot of the sunny space.
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Are you still here? I haven't bored you YET?
Oh, okay, so here's another household story. After all, he's expecting me to. . . I don't want to disappoint the husband who said, in a snide, gloomy voice, you'll put it in your blog, of course.
The ongoing saga in our house..... "sponges, and how to kill the off bacteria that stink them up."
I put wet sponges in the microwave, hit the setting for small popcorn (three minutes) and push start. I like to do this partly because the microwave display blinks "ENJOY!" when that setting's done. Nothing like opening up and finding a foamy sponge. (Popcorn's the only setting that gives any kind of advice at the end the cycle.)
The husband hates this. Not the ENJOY! part, the whole microwave issue. He has clipped bits from the newspaper to show me how inflammable sponges are. They're made of cellulose which is WOOD! which is fuel! He's reminded me of the time the microwave caught on fire when I was melting crayons.
He's lectured me, even said in a particulary unpleasant tone, don't do this in my house. He has badgered me about this every time he's caught me, which is often because I nuke the sponges every few days. I try to do it when he's not around. But because we've been together more than 25 years, I tend not to pay as close attention to the lectures as I once might have. To get him off my case, I did finally promised never to leave the kitchen when cooking the sponges.
This morning I woke up to a beeping smoke alarm and a bluish haze. My husband came upstairs, turned off the alarm and gave me a present--one of the best in all our years together. He admitted that he'd been decontaminating sponges. The thing that caught on fire and filled the house with smoke was a pan that had been full of water and sponges. He'd put the pan on the stove and forgotten about it. The reeking smoke was pure bliss and so is the sight of the charred ex-sponges.
The only disappointment from the incident: my call from K. She works with Mike, so naturally I had to tell her every detail of the story. Her response: You two deserve each other. Why the fuck don't you throw smelly sponges away?