saturday

Question: How many Me does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer: Just one, but it takes 4 1/2 hours.

In my defense, the bulb had broken off in an odd way from the silver tread-thingy and required some unusual light bulb-changing handiwork and possibly tools, of which I could find none. Or at least none suitable, which caused me to use my fingers and what's left of my nails. Which caused my brother to groan long distance as I balanced barefoot on the sink, holding the phone in one hand and jamming the other into the light socket with random precision. I am almost sure he groaned because he feared for my safety, and not because I call him every time something that needs to be done appears to call for a tool of some sort. And by that I mean no disrespect.

I needed needle-nosed pliers and had no idea where they were, but my nails are usually there at the tips of my fingers, although not always, and what's a little jolt of electrical current now and then? Frankly, I found it invigorating.

Of course, once I was up there and saw all the accumulated dirt of days gone-by, I was forced to drag out all the requisite equipment and scrub the room from top to bottom. And also plunge the sink, which I would like to point out is not my area of expertise. And while I do not have an actual area of expertise, I can now state with some certainty that this is not it. Still water runs, languidly.

Having no one to congratulate me on my new-found plumbing and electrical skills, I did what any Really Occasional Housewife of Orange County would do; I drew a picture of it. Wrote about and Photoshopped it; pinned a medal on it. Gave myself a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval and a merit scholarship. Imagined a reality show featuring me changing light bulbs and unplugging drains. Green-lit the project, in which I will be played by Susan Sarandon, because I really want to be her.

Naturally, I had to blog the entire process. Then question the wisdom of doing most, if not all, of the above.

4 1/2 hours. And people wonder why I never clean anymore.

flip flop foe fum

It's been so long since I cleaned my house, I have apparently forgotten how.

So as I flew around, barefoot, trying to get the place looking pretty and perfect for my first attempt at having a couple of our old friends over since last we entertained I ran, at some speed, into the leg of the kitchen table. It hurt so badly I cried for a moment, and then continued on my way, from vacuum to mower to grill. All of this was so much easier and infinitely more fun as a team effort, but the show must go on. Or so I am told. Some do, anyway. We'll see.

Now the little toe is almost certainly broken as, two weeks later, I can't put on heels, runners or shoes of any kind. I am living in these whimsical pink camouflage flip flops that I bought at WalMart around 2007, and which I now count among my most treasured possessions.

Yes, that weird shape is a bunion. And no, I don't care. Stilettos are my last vice. Nearly my last vice. One of my last four vices. Top five, and quit counting.

On Tuesday I have jury duty. Again. I think the pink camo flip flops might finally get me off. I certainly wouldn't want them deciding anyone's fate.