Saturday mornings

Don't you just love the look of freshly vacuumed carpet? Look how lovely it is. Scroll back up and take a look. I'll wait.

When I was a kid, my mom would clean the house every Friday. It took her all day while we were at school, but when we came home the floor was vacuumed, the kitchen mopped, and everything was sparkling clean. Just approaching the house I could smell the pinesol and pledge. My one responsibility was on Friday mornings, I had to pick up everything from the bedroom floor and from under the bed so that Mom could vacuum. Not a terrible responsibility, but when I was a kid, I found it so overbearingly annoying. I remember many Friday mornings arguing with Mom about picking things up before school. I was spoiled.

When TC and I got married, I was surprised and a bit disappointed to find out that TC's family had the same tradition of cleaning like that once a week, but in his family everyone participated, which meant that I had to participate. I threw my share of fits in having to clean, trying to find ways to get out of it, dragging it out so it ended up taking all day Saturday. But over the years, we've gotten the cleaning down to a science. And I've grown up. And I've learned to appreciate a clean house and the work that goes into it.

So every Saturday morning, TC and I clean our house. We dust, sweep, vacuum, scrub the toilets, and wipe down the counters. We wash the laundry, fold it, put it away. Everything in each room is in its place, for a little while. The house smells like Old English and dryer sheets. We put on loud music (too bad for our neighbors that want to sleep in on Saturday mornings), dance around and clean. I know what I need to do, and TC knows what he needs to do. And I no longer drag it out so it doesn't take all day. Every few minutes, I'll emerge from the bathroom (where I'm cleaning) to dance for TC while he cleans, because the music is just that good. And when we're done we get ready for the day.

This is why I love Saturday afternoons after the cleaning is done, especially when I have a little bit of time to just lay down on the carpet and smell the clean.

Then comes Sunday, Monday, and so on. The mail accumulates on the counter, and my clothes accumulate in the corner of the bedroom. And the carpet is no longer brushed, and the sinks are no longer shiny, and the kitchen floor gets a little sticky. And my days are a little less bright. But invariably, Saturday comes around again, and while dancing around and having fun TC and I put the house back into its proper form. And the brightness resumes.

Flip-Flops

It's been a while since I've said something meaningful, so I thought, why start now? I'm on a roll of meaningless posts. Also, it's been a while since I've full out whined about something, on the blog anyway. So, today I have for you... (cue the searching spotlights, the anticipation-inducing strings, drum roll on those huge drums that for some reason are beat with those drum sticks with fuzzy marshmallow looking things on the end)...

A RANT.

ABOUT FLIP-FLOPS.

Well, not so much about flip-flops as about how people walk in them. You see, I am of the firm belief that flip-flops derive their name from the sound they are supposed to make when you walk, "flip...flop...flip...flop." The sandals are not called shufflers, draggers, or chtchtchts.

A typical pair of flip-flops. Cute, right?

So as warm weather is upon us, and people stroll around in their comfortable summer sandals, why is it that all of the sudden nobody knows how to lift up their feet anymore? Why do so many people become foot dragging apes, just because they are wearing flip-flops?

PICK UP YOUR FEET!! PICK THEM UP!! DON'T DRAG THEM! YOU'RE DRIVING ME CRAZY! I WANT TO SCRATCH MY EARS OUT JUST HEARING YOU DRAG YOUR LAZY BEAST FEET!!!! PICK THEM UP!!!

(take a deep breath Gordita)

There are a few groups of people who are exempt from the "pick up your darn feet" rule: the elderly and people with physical disabilities (laziness is not a disability). Also, if the ground is covered with a sheet of ice, I would suggest dragging your feet so as not to slip. So, to sum up, there are two groups of people and one situation I can think of in which it is acceptable (in my humble, but ludicrously strong opinion) to drag one's feet.

You can be assured that if you are walking behind me, dragging your feet, I will stop to look at "something really interesting" to let you pass so I don't have to hear your gorilla feet drag on the ground. Or, if I'm feeling really immature (which happens to be extremely rare *cough*), I will imitate you obnoxiously so you will have a live demonstration of just how annoying you are, unless you don't get the fact that I'm imitating you on purpose and just think I'm annoying for dragging my gorilla feet.

I heart irony!

And here's some irony fun for you all to enjoy.

Pandora!

I've discovered Pandora and my life will never be the same. Just set up an account, choose an artist you're in the mood to listen to and you will hear songs from that artist and others that are similar. You tell the Pandora people if you like the song or not by clicking a thumbs up or thumbs down, and you're on your way to hearing music you didn't know you loved. And you can create "Stations" that remember your preferences. I'm astonished at how great this is! And since I'm tethered to a computer the better part of the day, this just couldn't be any more perfect for me.

Right now I'm listening to my Julieta Venegas station, which pulls up songs by Belanova, Juanes, Mana, Shakira and more Latin rock greats. Cool!

Discover Pandora for yourself.

Gardenia, Oh How I Love Thee

So as I mentioned one lone bud on my gardenia plant opened. And in a cruel twist of irony, Ms. EntirelyTooSensitiveNostrils was congested and couldn't enjoy the perfume of the flower. But just look how beautiful it was:


My congestion is clearing up, and slowly I'm regaining my ability to taste and smell. And just as I regain my super power, Flower Numero Uno is dying.

Sad.

But Flower Numero Dos is on it's way.


Gracias Plantita Adorada. Your flowers bring happiness to my soul. And thinking how hard you would laugh if you could hear me talk to you makes me giggle. And thinking about how crazy I am to imagine such things worries me a little bit. And then I chuckle at how absurd the whole thing is. Chuckle nervously.

A hello from TC

He's not available at the moment, but I wanted to take the time to tell you all that he's been thinking and planning what he would say if he posted. And let me tell you, he's got a few great ideas. And I keep telling him that if he were to post, our blogging friends would be so supportive and loving and kind and excited and loving, did I mention loving already?

TC is busy with work. He works in a lab researching stuff. And when he comes home, he researches more stuff. He's pretty researchy like that. And when he's not researching, he's creating things, like this HD antenna:


Technical explanation: It's an antenna that when connected to a TV with an HD tuner hones in on those HD signals and displays them on your TV, just like an HDTV antenna you could buy in the store, except this one is better (in my humble opinion) because TC made it and because it doesn't have that "manufactured with standard materials that have no need for electrical tape" look that the store-bought ones have.

I'm pretty braggy when it comes to TC. I know this. But let's ignore that, fight back the nausea and get back to his antenna. Together we can get through this inflated opinion of TC that I have. Here it is from a different angle.


And right now, TC is presenting his research to a bunch of scientists. And he's away from me, several states away, which only serves to grow my opinion of him. Honestly. It's crazy how that works. Something about absence making the heart grow fonder?

Blogger Love

Some lady love for my ladies. Plus Lou Rawls is the man. For reals.

I hab a cold

It's a wicked nasty cold that just won't die. But I have two thoughts to share.

1. My gardenia plant bloomed. One lonely little bud opened her bud leaves and showed her creamy white face to the world. I have not yet taken a photo. Why? Because I'm lame. And I'm too congested to smell her fragrance (relief for the over-achieving sniffer). But I'm happy to see her beautiful leetle face.

2. Oprah says get a bra fitting. (See sign.)

Sign located in Bountiful, Utah in front of Lace by Louise.

So girls, if Oprah says it, it must be true/important/right. So get a bra fitting!

Happiness in Ten

I'm a copy cat (see here for evidence). With that confession, I'll list for you ten things that make me smile on the inside.

1. When TC holds me until I fall asleep.

2. Talking to my plant in an accent: "Do not be afraid leetle plant. Bloom and show the world your beautiful face."


3. Silly face photos.


4. These little dimples:


5. Marching bands in parades.


6. Singing along to loud music with TC in the car.


7. Amusement parks.


8. Cuddling up in my fuzzy blanket to watch a movie.

9. Getting ice cream at an old fashioned ice cream parlor.


10. TC in a suit.



What makes you smile on the inside? I'd love to know.

Smells of the Sabbath

We've already established that I have a hyper sensitive nose, no? So, here's where my nose becomes more of a curse than a blessing.

Sunday is a lovely day to get out the crock pot and simmer a delicious dinner while you're at church so that by the time you get home it's warm and bubbly and fills your home with the perfume of lunch/dinner. At least, that's what I've heard.

By the time we get home from our church services each Sunday at noon, we are hungry for lunch. When I say "hungry" I really mean "so famished I can't see straight" and when I say "we" I really mean "me." So when it's cold outside and rain is blowing at your face no matter which direction you're holding the umbrella as you walk home, and the wind is so forceful that it pushes you backward, that's when you want to come home to a warm, nice-smelling apartment.

But instead, we are often bombarded by our neighbors' malodorous crock pot creations. With my sharpened sense of smell, I'm able to sniff out nearly every ingredient. By the time the scent of their lovely, thoughtfully prepared meals wafts its way out of their apartment, into the hallway, mixes with the emanations from other apartments, seeps under my door into my sanctuary of fragrance and beauty, and reaches my nose, it's ... how do I put it nicely? ... it smells like the stagnant air from a tavern the hot day after a long St. Patrick's Day night combined with the scents of a sun-drenched dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant ... funky.

So these Smells of the Sabbath (term is trademarked by TC as a gesture of sympathy for my aromatic complications) typify our Sunday afternoons. It's a bouquet of chocolate cake pork roast baked potato brownies slathered in mint frosting clam chowder overripe bananas beef stew with a side order of steamed garlic bread covered in jam and bread-n-butter pickles, and can only be stifled by stuffing a blanket into the crack between the door and the floor and generously spraying Glade around the room.

The secret life of super sniffers is neither seductive nor glamorous. But such is my life.

You'll never find

Friday afternoon loving for all of you. You'll never find another blog like mine... :) Enjoy!

TC in an elevator

...living it up while he's going down. Or up.

Elevators are awkward. I'm awkward. Combine the two and you have super sonic awkwardness. My M.O. in elevators is to find a corner and stand in it, then stare intently at the wall, buttons, the floor number indicator, read any piece of literature on the wall, check my phone, or do anything but look at my elevator mate. That's me: awkward.

TC lives it up. Elevators don't intimidate him. He's not awkward like me. He gets in an elevator and it's like he's arrived at a party where he is the guest of honor. He greets everyone, strikes up a conversation (like the riveting one from the other day about Murphy's Law), makes a joke, finds common ground with the stranger in the elevator... By the time our ride is over, whoever was in the elevator is smiling. They walk in looking like their world is about to end, weary from a long day, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to arrive at their floor and lose themselves in uninterrupted isolation (kind of like how I feel when I enter an elevator). But TC has a way with people that I can only hope to imitate cheaply. Regardless of how exhausted a person is, if they step into an elevator with TC, they WILL end up with a smile on their face. It's a proven scientific fact.

And when I'm in an elevator with TC I end up with a smile on my face too. It's a gift of his.

My secret talent

I have a secret talent that I'd like to tell you all about. But before I do that, I should tell you all that I'm a connoisseur of pizza, an aficionado of all things cheesy, crusty and tomato-saucy. Also, I have a keen sense of smell. Put the two together and I can distinguish between brands of pizza chains and toppings just by smell. TC says that this isn't necessarily a talent to boast about, but I disagree. My sense of smell is a gift, but mostly a curse. So if I can find even one good thing about heightened olfactory skills, darn it, I will.

Just last night in the elevator of our building there was a woman carrying a pizza box. I did not get a good look at the box, and I wasn't about to stare, but TC got a good look because he was talking to her about how Murphy's Law applies to elevator rides 90% of the time in that whenever we are carrying heavy items from the car we get stopped on every floor between the parking garage and our floor. It's crazy.

Anyway, they were having that conversation and I was sniffing her pizza, from the other side of the elevator, of course. And I determined that she had a Papa John's ham and pineapple. I was so tempted to interrupt the conversation to ask her if she indeed had a ham and pineapple pizza, but I thought better of it. Besides, the conversation about Murphy's Law was so riveting.

TC was able to confirm that the pizza box had the Papa John's logo on it. With that confirmed, there was no doubt that I had the toppings correct. AHA! I shouted to TC. I got it right! No pizza is safe from my discriminating nose.

Someday I'll tell you all about the curse of having a good-smelling nose.