Sale Tale......

I am so not suave.
Sophistication doesn't stick to me. Cool, elegant airs of refinement and casual-ness roll off my skin like I'm made of Teflon.
Every sale is like a personal thumbs up from the world at large. Do I raise an eyebrow and smile, subtly. A slight curving of the lips to indicate a general air of pleasure but not so much I seem like I'm desperate and really care?
Nope.
Do I squawk?
Oh, oh yes. Like a chicken. More like a chicken in love on a fine spring day, with bees buzzing and roosters giving me the lecherous eye. I squawk.
"Brawwwwwwwwk"
"What?" Alan looks over, smiles. He's obviously used to my squawking as he hasn't run for a chicken net.
"I sold something!" I try to say it casually but casually has left the building and took all my calm, slow, patient, non-vibrating with joy composure with it.
"Oh wow! Cool!" He's as happy as me, but he doesn't squawk like chicken.
"Brawwwwwwwwwwwk! Ohmygodthat'ssocoolIlovesellingstuff!!!" "That's terrific!"
"Brawwwwwk, brawwwk, brawwwwwk!" My hands shake a wee little bit as a thousand things to do floods my mind. Reply to the buyer, update my inventory, add a sold sign to the store, think about packaging, get a coffee to celebrate, double check my list to make sure I'm not forgetting anything important...but...all of the things that need done are in a log jam in my head, bouncing with childish glee on the nerves connected to my fingers so that my hands hover over the keyboard for what seems like an eternity. "Brawwwk"
Well eternity to an ecstatic, chicken sounding lady.
I need to update my inventory list, first things first but I can't. Every second thunders by, I am sure an hour has passed since I first learned of my latest sale and started transforming into the crafty chicken lady.....I glance at the clock. Alan is walking over to see my sale and I realize his foot is hovering in midair, his mouth is stuck in the same sweet "O" of surprise and supportive happiness. A Ha, times is not thundering by, in fact, it's me. With the beating heart and shaking hands and nervous energy as my brain skips to packaging materials and back to the inventory list.
Do something fingers. DO SOMETHING!
"Brawwwwwk!"
Not that!
"Brawwwk. Alan, I'm sorry I can't be cool about this. I try but......BRAWWWWK BRAWWWWWWWWK, I SOLD SOMETHING!"
Time has returned to normal and my fingers flex. Alan is beside me and we hug, near to bouncing up and down like school children from the 1920's (modern school children do not bounce with childish glee any more, they text message with eerily adult glee)
My heart rate slows and my brain thanks me for the mental jolt, the wild thrill ride that is totally and completely created by me and some stranger from the middle of America who is now my new best friend and they don't even know it.
I update my inventory, I reply to the buyer and my words are so succinct and articulate on the screen that you'd never know I was squawking like a chicken moments ago.
Except...
You do, cause I had to share. The reality of me is a chicken squawking person who doesn't have an ounce of placidity to her name.
I make stuff.
People buy it.
I squawk like a chicken.
You gotta love this world.

They should call them Mmmmmmmargaritas...

(a little sprinkle of a really fruity dried chili pepper is a nice little spicy twist to the margarita.)

Dear Self,
Last night you had a gorgeous plate of homemade mexican food?

Yes.

A layer of homemade, slow cooked mexican beans that were heavily flavoured with garlic, peppers and spices. Topped with 3 fried masa dough balls that encased spicy jack cheese, accompanied by green epazote salsa, a sprinkle of cilantro and tomato.

Mmmmm yes indeed.

And self, were there also watermelon margaritas so delicious and flavorful it felt like you were sinking your teeth into some exotic fruit only found in paradise every time you took a sip (of which there were many)?

Yes, yes there were.

And you enjoyed this luxurious meal at home, in the comfy coziness of your own sofa with your sweetie pie husband watching the new Stargate movie?

You bet your gate dialing, wormhole traveling, Samantha Carter lovin' ass I did.

Damn, you know if you weren't me...I'd hate you right about now.

Yeah...I get that a lot.

Dear Universe......

You are so damn sneaky. I love the way you twist and turn the tendrils of fate, weaving me in amongst your strange plans. Very clever. Yes, very clever indeed Universe.
Sometimes, I admit I get a little...well...lets be honest, I get down right furious with you. As in, un-becoming, red cheeked, mad-eyed, righteous indignation infused with a touch of pissed-off-ed-ness at ya.

(I'm pretty sure that's a drop kick I'm performing...)

And I'm sorry about that.
I mean, really when you think about it, that makes as much sense as getting mad at the check out girl at the grocery store.
It's not her fault she needs the manager to come and do secret special manager things to the cash register as the line of people backs up, the crowd of shoppers starts grumbling less than quietly under their breaths and her manager has yet to arrive. I of course don't get angry, cause I can see that's not her fault, and besides that the woman in line behind us is apparently hogging all the anger today, drawing it tight against her pursed lipped self as she stares daggers at the checker and fumes until she realizes no one is taking her fuming seriously and proceeds to dramatically flounce away with her purchases to a different check out.
I might add Universe, whilst I'm thinking of it, that I could see in that moment what you had in mind. It became clear pretty fast that the slowed up checkout wasn't for our benefit, we were just a cog in the machine. Or maybe it was for our benefit but we passed your test with flying colours, cracking jokes with the checker and fellow un-irate customers, biding our time for the manager.
The manager who just happened to be busy, because she too was manning a checkout lane and couldn't leave mid customer check-out. Oh universe, you clever crafty omnipotent thing you. How delightfully, and might I add, deliciously dark of you to have the fuming customer who lane hopped be the manager's next customer....the customer who had to wait while the manager proceeded to leave her station and make her way, 6 lanes down to our station...thereby leaving the presumably still pissed off woman..waiting...again. You can't really me that didn't happen on purpose.
You can't tell me that beautifully orchestrated lesson in patience, manners, good humor and respect wasn't part of your to-do list for the day. Right after making a squirrel get run over by a car but before making that one cloud look suspiciously like the Ship Hector. Busy, busy every day for you Universe, and like I said some days your schemes make sense. Other days....well other days you're damn lucky you don't have an ass I could drop kick in to next week. I'm not even sure I know what a drop kick is, but it sounds powerful and painful and I'd be willing to learn on those days when you do nothing but confuse and exasperate me. Hiding your life lessons so well amongst the general chaos of existing on this planet with every one else that I could even begin to doubt you have life lessons for me at all. I even begin to wonder if I'm just a bit of amusement for you, an experiment, a "what will happen if we make her realllllllllly mad" reality show for you.
Take my tooth.
Actually, to steal an old over-used joke, no don't. I've had so much work done on this one, wee, poor tooth that I do not want it any where but where it is, tucked safely in my head.
But this tooth. What was the plan there Universe? Does one tooth realllllllly need all those dentist visits? Seriously? Was this the master plan of the sneaky dentist's league...or you. I gotta say.....this entire tooth trial smacks of your doing Universe.
Shall we reminisce?
First, a tooth with a prior filling from yeeeeeears ago.

• Visit 1: Has a crack and needs a new filling, dentist discovers the old filling is touching my nerve and suspects I may possibly need a root canal, fills the tooth temporarily with mysterious dentist meds so that my tooth can have a chance to be a super star and heal. Wait 2 weeks.
• Visit 2: Tooth feels fine, no root canal, oh yaaaaay for me. Pretty new white filling doesn't behave as it goes in. Dentist tries over, and over, and over during this visit, the tooth finally after hours in the chair is filled. yaaaaaaaaaaaay.
• Visit 3: The filling has popped out due to flossing and it's difficult in between teeth area that is apparently damn hard for a dentist to fill. New filling, again damn hard to do, long dentist visit. Tooth re-filled, yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.
• Visit 4: The filling has popped out.....again. Dentist tries again but admits if it doesn't stay I may need to switch back to metal amalgam for this tooth, darn, but he gets it filled, so yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.
• Visit 5: Routine check-up, I noticed that tooth was aching a bit. Dentist sees no evidence that it's hurt. yaaaaaaaaaaay
• Visit 6: The tooth has joined forces with Satan and puts me through the absolute worst pain of my entire life. Emergency visit for x-ray and referral to the root canal guy...umm..yay?
• Visit 7: Root canal, sweet pain relief root canal. Best damn root canal of my life.
• Visit 8: Crown prep, oh me and this dentist's chair are old friend's now. Getting my tooth finished soon, get a shiny new temporary crown while the new porcelain one is being made. Yaaaaaaaaay!
• Visit 9: The crown has not been made right. Something along the lines of a little mysterious bubble, confusion at the lab, and the crown doesn't go down as far as it should in one spot. *sigh* New molds taken of my poor wee tooth, I get reacquainted with the temporary crown, which is feeling a little less temporary now and go home to wait another week......great.
• Visit 10: The crown is still a little funky. At this point I am gazing up directly at you Universe, sure it may have looked like the dentist's ceiling but trust me, it was you. As they muttered and poked, and pondered and rushed around fixing my crown for the SECOND TIME, leaving me to wait as it's rushed across the street to the crown people I just gotta wonder......are you testing me? Or trying to break me? I'm telling ya now, I won't be broke. I will damn well learn a lesson from all of this even if it's a few new swear words that I invented just for you Universe you malafortling bodsquipper. Yeah, you heard me right.

In that moment as I sat in the chair wondering if I'd be going home with my new tooth or not I felt that moment...that eye watering, mouth tightening, chest pressure moment when you realize you're either going to cry or......slap some one silly...no not really. It's cry or sigh. Cause what can ya do? I can't complain, being able to get tooth work done is a luxury, just like my dish drainer. If it needs more time, it needs more time.
A HA.
Patience?
Is that it? Well hell that's as good a reason as any to make me go through 10, 11 if you count the old filling from when I was a kid...and ya know what?
Lets do that. Lets count it cause I think I should get a wee bit of horror story bragging rights out of this besides my shiny new porcelain crown. That makes ELEVEN, count them, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11 visits to the dentist for just ONE tooth.
So........thanks.
I didn't freak, I didn't mentally crack...well not much. There are people in the world who'd just have to get a tooth yanked, if they could afford even that. And we're not rich by any means but I sure do appreciate being able to get work done on a tooth instead of just ignoring it. Thanks for providing me with the opportunity to not get rip roaring mad at the dentist, cause I really don't think it's his fault my tooth was in a gang run by Satan. Thanks for the most awesome, amazingest husband who sat out there in a waiting room chair for every single second I was at the dentist.
Thanks.
Like I said, I don't always see your reasons but I figure even if you don't have any lessons for me to learn, well I'll be my own teacher, and teach myself.
By the way, if you feel like bestowing me with that super power we talked about before.....like if you're feeling a little guilty seeing all those dentist visits laid out in all their mind numbing numbers glory...well I'm not so learned and advanced I'd turn 'em down.
Love from me.

F8

I was wrist deep in a bloody massacre at the kitchen sink when my husband called out, "We were going to get a lottery ticket!"
I turned, dark red cherry juice dripping from my fingers, rolling in disturbing little rivulets down my wrists as I too remembered and exclaimed, "Oh yeah!!!"
Cherries are forgotten, as Alan explains why he remembered. Today is August 8th, of 2008. That's 08/08/08. We don't buy lottery tickets very often but when we do we like to buy them connected with some oddity number freak-show of a calendar date.
Who wants to buy a lottery ticket for no reason?
Well I mean beyond the gazillion dollar reason, we like to have an extra reason. An anniversary date, or at 11:00 am or pm if we can manage it. Or on February 22 at 2 pm. We figure if fate aka the universe wants us to win a gazillion dollars then it won't be from some random ticket we bought on a 6th of January. Who buys a lottery ticket on the 6th of January? Not us. It's not superstition, it's genius.
"I got an email newsletter from that psychic I've been reading about. That's what reminded me about the odd date today. It's supposed to be lucky."
I gaze across the living room at Alan as he shares this extra juicy tidbit of news. A psychic says today is lucky......hmmmmm....
I stand, cherry juice drying on my fingers and on the counter and the floor where I've already dripped it as I consider the fact it's already evening and I've started prep work for homemade yogurt with massacred cherries.
Should we bother running out to get a ticket after all?
"Get this, it's almost 8 now!" Alan has turned around completely in his computer chair and faces me, our eyes lock.
In that moment a decision is made, no words are needed, our bodies move in a balletic like synchronization for a moment as we are spurred into action.
I fling cherry juice into the sink, lick it from my wrist and permanently stain my dish towel as I hurriedly wipe my hands off.
Alan is rising from his chair, he goes for our shoes as I shove the bowl of yogurt back in the fridge. I leave the cherry carnage as it is, pits, juice, cherries scattered across my sink and cutting board. Probably across me as well but it doesn't matter.
We are on a mission.
"There's only 5 minutes to 8." I call, heading for the bedroom to put on my *outer world clothes*. You know, the clothes you wear out in public that are different and usually less comfy than the *at home clothes*.
We are a well oiled lottery ticket purchasing machine.
He grabs our wallets, I grab the keys, and we are out the door. Breathless with excitement, off to buy a lottery ticket as close to 8 pm as we can on 08/08/08.
Winning the lottery would be fricking sweet any day of the year, who am I kidding, but winning it from a ticket purchased on 08/08/08 at 8 would be better than any damn cherry on top.
We are laughing as we fling ourselves into the car and head out.
"Should we go to the 7-11?" I ask, carefully directing the car down the darkened driveway despite our hurry.
Alan thinks for a moment, the 7-11 is where we usually buy our lottery tickets. "Too bad there's no 8-11."
We groan in unison, man that would have been awesome. And damn the 7-11, it's more than 5 minutes away and on top of that it's numbers don't even add up to 8 or a variable of it. 7+1+1 =9 Damn.
At the main road, turn signal clicking away Alan and I share a laugh. Could any one else in the universe have as much fun buying a lotto ticket as we do? Even if we don't win we are sure getting our dollar's worth of excitement out of it. We turn an every day, even mundane task into an event filled with excitement and meaning. We imagine the hand of the universe directing us to buy a lottery ticket today of all days. So much more exciting than just "oh ho hum buying another ticket for no reason on just another average day."
"We should go to the little store."
Alan's words cut through the giddy silence in the car.
"O.k." We've never been to the "little store" it's an itsy bitsy glorified liquor and cigarette place that's right at the intersection, like 3 minutes from home.
"It would be nice for them if we won," he continues on as I am already turning into their tiny little parking lot, "they could use the money."
We remember how we read one time the place that sells the winning ticket gets a special fee from the lottery people.
See how kind we are universe?
See how we're thinking beyond ourselves. Deciding we'd like our gazillion dollar winning ticket fee thing-a-ma-jig to go to the little guy at the corner.
We leap out of the car, well, we leap out as best you can from a little Honda Civic and rush over to the doorway of the teeny tiny little store. Like a sign from the lottery Gods there is a ticket station standing outside, right by the entrance.
We are ready.
We are so ready to buy this ticket.
We are so ready we brought our own pen in case of a pen emergency at the ticket station.
We fill out two sections to buy two tickets. One ticket we choose numbers that are purposefully and well thought out. The other we randomly point the pen and fill in, no thought at all.
See how clever we are? Figuring we are covering both ways the universe might wanna direct us to win. Through randomness or purposefulness.
We buy the 2 tickets.
The rush of speed is over, we made it. We don't know if we bought it exactly at 8 pm but we were as close to it as we could possibly get.
On the way home we pat each other verbally on the back for supporting our local little store and for following our instincts.
"We could fix up the car when we get the money." Alan says in that soft voice one gets when thinking out loud.
I snort. A definite un-lady like snort and Alan joins me in laughing. "I don't mean like pimp it out."
I laugh, "I didn't really think you did. You mean like convert it to electric or hydrogen run or something."
"Yeah, maybe fix the wires in the dash."
I glance down at the gaping hole in our dashboard where our many, many, mannnny car stereos had once oh so briefly lived.
"I kinda like the wires. It says 'this cars already been hit, move it along'. "
Parking the car in the driveway we head back inside.
"Hey we met in 2000, I mean we knew of each other's existence in the year 2000 which means that we are on our 8th year of knowing each other."
Alan turns and stares at me and we grin. Two different faces but damn it all we're wearing the same grin, that special "8" infused ticket just got a littler eight-ier. Sweet.
So were the cherries and homemade yogurt.
No snack tastes as delicious as one that is made and ate basking in the aftermath of a lottery ticket splurge and the foremath of lottery ticket winnings.
By the by, the lotto ticket numbers are drawn Saturday night at 7:57.
Do you know how fricking close to 8 that is? Fricking close enough that we will check our numbers at 8 exactly.
Should you hear a decidedly 8 flavoured screech from the vicinity of Southern California round abouts 8:01 pm than you can probably guess what happened.
If all you hear is an amused chuckle and the sound of a ticket being gently torn up and scattered into the recycling bin then you can guess what happened also.
Either way, it'll be fun.
Either way, it's up to Feight now.

Do cats have belly buttons and dish drainers are a luxury....

(Please note the lack of belly buttons...)

You know how when you're in the middle of sculpting a cat, I mean out of clay...not a real cat...sheesh well we're off to a great start aren't we? You have visions of me putting cats through their paces, toning their abs and encouraging them to lift their legs a little higher, run a little faster and all I'm trying to do is figure out if they have belly buttons.
Course now if I'm the one creating the cat, in clay, not gene manipulation of course then logic dictates in loud and snooty tones that I can MAKE my cats have belly buttons. The clay ones at least.......
As it turns out after a wee bit of side tracked Google-ing, a few moments discussion with my husband, a trip down a faded memory lane back when Ninja, our old Siamese, gave birth on my bed.....ick...some memories are worth fading....I have come to the conclusion that cats DO have belly buttons.
Not cutsie little dimple-y buttons but an elongated scar some where on their stomach, under all that fur. I am the proud knower of this fact thanks to the handy dandy internet. (Providing me with useless bits of trivia since the year 2000.)
Have you ever searched your cat for it's belly button? Then felt mildly guilty because your cat is rolling about in slobbery, purring, roaring ecstasy because it's perceiving a legitimate belly button search as pure petting? Well feline mis-perceived affection guilt aside, I can't find their belly buttons, though both our cats were willing to undergo hours of legitimate belly button searching if I wanted.....it's weird that cats aren't just born with a human hand attached to them...evolution happens everywhere else....why not here?
I opted not to give my clay cat one....though why I feared it I dunno.... I'd already painted a cat pink, orange, purple and even green. A belly button is the least of my concerns regarding accuracy.
Perhaps, to head this wee bit of kitty belly button confusion off before it builds in to a life long crippling fear of sculpting belly buttons on cartoonish, strange coloured cats I ought to sculpt a new cat. And give it not one...but TWO belly buttons. muahh ahhh ahhh Thereby not only defeating my clay cat belly button fear but actually I'd be kicking it's ass. Fear's I mean, not the cats. By the way if you could take all the words I have wrote for this entire blog and totaled them all up in to like phrase categories you would find that I have said "kick the ass" or some variation of it like a hundred million times. Or there abouts, like I'm actually going to add up all my words..sheesh I'm only a certain level of geeky, which means geeky enough to think of it and make up a fake statistic but not quite geeky enough (aka am too lazy) to find out the real "kick the ass" or some variation of, statistic.
So there I am, happily sculpting little kitties, muttering like a mad evil genius as I paint little toe pads, curl little whiskers and come up with a series of delightful names. (Puddums, Puhleez, Pinky, InkSplotch, Nib and Pigment if you're curious, and if you're not then you should definitely not be poking your nose past any brackets or parentheses on my blog cause that's pretty much where I always shove the useless--er..I mean useful trivia that I feel is important enough it should interrupt the regular flow of my words....)
So there I was happily creating a whole litter of kittens, I mean I was practically a cat God, or kitten mother, or maybe both and my dishes were in the meanwhile cluttering up my kitchen sink.
How are these two connected?
I am a crafter, which means I suck at housekeeping.
I do not begin to say all crafters suck at house keeping, I'm saying my craftiness means that it's easy to sit and immerse myself into the world of kitty cat colours, back stories for them, arranging web pages and taking photos of my creations....rather than clearing out the kitchen sink.
Not that I'm a total pig, I work damn hard at trying to stay on top of my messes so as not to have them overwhelm me. BUT as a crafter, inspiration hits and before you know it you've been sitting cross legged in your chair with a million and a half tools scattered across your work surface, blue and purple paint staining your finger tips, your coffee glass has gone empty and you're cackling at old episodes of Arrested Development that you catch up on from Hulu as you craft away....and the dishes...are easily forgotten.....for hours.
Yes we have a dishwasher....did you know they only work right if you keep emptying it and refilling it? It's a never ending, quite depressing cycle if you think about it. Which I do, and try not to or else I'd cry.
Now I have a deal with myself, and maybe this is a shameful thing to admit, but I have a deal with myself to switch the dishes around every day, at some point at least once, so that the cycle of dueling dishes keeps spinning round and round, re-filling the cupboards with sparkling clean glasses and loading up the washer with all the grungy used ones. For most people I'm betting this is easy, for me it's harrrrd, but I keep trying. That way my counter doesn't become some sort of weird quicksand like trap for all the dishes that have been abandoned half way between their destinations, be it the dishwasher or the cupboard. Perhaps this is like dishes purgatory.....though that means the cupboard and the dishwasher are hell and heaven though I'm not sure which would be which. I think I could work up arguments for either side......
ANYYYYYYYwaaaaaaaaaays.....we have this nifty dish drainer basket that straddles one side of the kitchen sink. This sweet little deal that is supposed to make me a house-keeping genius, in that if I'm too lazy....er....I mean busy to empty the dishwasher etc I can rinse the occasional glass and leave it to drip dry in the basket and voila I am a cleaning genius. Sparkling acres of laminate countertops, neatly tucked away dishes in the cupboards and the dishwasher happily chugging away as it scrubs up my days dishes.
Only...it doesn't work like that....What happens is, the basket fills, the empty side of the sink fills and getting at the water tap becomes a chore.
Now you're ewwwwing and making faces, you really oughtta stop that.
See that's what I was saying earlier, that every day I suck it up and buzz through my dish cycle and try and empty the sink, the basket, the washer and return everything to it's illusion of complete organization that I am trying to maintain. But there's been this small chink....this basket while genius in it's design to straddle the sink means I basically gave up half my sink to become one helluva glorified dish drainer.
Hence why I needed a little plastic tray doo-hicky to sit on the counter to drain off into the sink and my sweet little basket can sit on that. Voila, doubled my sink space for filling pots, water glasses, setting dishes to soak etc.
If you're rolling your eyes at such an obvious housekeeping necessity well pbbbbbbbt at you. I am not a natural housekeeper, it takes work, the part of my brain that should in theory be a natural at scooping up socks to throw in the laundry hamper as I walk by is usually humming Betty Hutton songs, or Eartha Kitt. How can I think of picking up socks let alone keeping the kitchen organized with Eartha Kitt's voice buzzing in my head about rather being burned as a witch? (Most awesome song ever)
So housework is a never ending lesson in life for me and I am ridiculously proud every day that I can stay on top of my messes, keep the cycle of dishes spinning AND on top of that get some crafting, writing, blogging AND cooking done. Put it that way I sound fricking awesome right?
Now the thing is, how long did I hunch my shoulders and turn my back favoring little sculpted kitties over getting a dish drainer tray?

(example of my fricking genius multi-tasking. Seared Ahi steak, homemade mole sauce, homemade green epazote/tomatillo sauce with avocados, sour cream and cilantro....this is only one of the many reasons my dishes can sometimes get neglected...)

Ummmm.....a while.....lets just say.
It was something we needed but I swear to you I felt like I couldn't just go GET a dish drainer tray. I needed to think about it, I didn't want to get something that wouldn't really be useful, would mess up my counter top system which is tenuously holding at best. I didn't want to buy something that would break or be nasty or something in a year and then throw it away. I needed to think about it. I mean can you think of anything more extravagant and luxurious than a dish drainer tray thing-a-majig? I mean I have the dishwasher here, I have a double sink, I have a drain basket and my own two hands and apparently that's not enough? Honestly...for now...I guess not.
Little kitties, sweet little cross eyed looking kitties, with your simple smiling purr-fectly adorable faces. You're so much less complicated than my damn dishes. Well except for the whole belly button thing...yikes. That was a nerve wracking ordeal...to poke a dimple in your soft clay bellies or not to?
So I decided, and I got a drainer.

(see my new drainer? Of course not, it's see-THRU plastic..woooooo if they made see-THRU dishes my problems would all go away...oh wait...they do...its glass and if it gets dirty they're no longer see-thru...what I need is see-THRU food....)

I bought the expensive 9.99 one too. I know!!!! For a piece of fricking sloped plastic....wow...but I wanted to make sure I got a dish drainer I really liked. One that spoke to me, one that had the shining gleam of a promise to help me stay organized so I can poke my fingers into clay with wild abandon rather than as a distraction from the growing pile of dishes in the kitchen. It had to be a dish drainer that felt like it could be the last dish drainer I'd ever have to buy, a dish drainer that seemed sophisticated enough to justify my need for it.
Life is all about balance I believe, you're either free falling or flying and from one second to the next. For the moment, I am flying in the house cleaning category. But it takes so little to knock me off course, a tv show, a new Nora Roberts' book, a blog entry that screams to be written, a lump of clay that's begging to be squished, a meal that's whining it needs to be made, a husband that's sweetly whispering, "the dishes don't matter".
A ha but they do, to me.
I shall bask in the glory of my new dish drainer tray until the newness wears off and them I'm just muttering over the sink about how I ever did with out it and be content in the knowledge that my cats have belly buttons.....some where.