Just say no

... to low cost snake skin.

Admittedly, I'm a little inconsistent in my shopping. I can come up with all kinds of excuses to splurge on some things, while other things I can't be convinced to spend more than a couple of pennies ... even if most people would find it perfectly logical to do so.

Nylons fall into category two. Hence the reason I went 'all out', buying some 6 pairs when I saw the generic brand on sale for 3 bucks a pop at the grocery store last week (for the record, that IS a bargain in Geneva, where usually they'd go for three or four times that ...). I've learned my lesson. Next time I'm shelling out the big bucks.

Who knew there are different "quality categories" of nylons?? Gave pair No. 1 the test run today and ... FAIL. With a big fat capital "F".

Migros, you may advertise your nylons to have "comfortable elasticity and reinforced toes," but let me tell you, your product testers must have been paid off to lie, cuz' these suckers don't have any elastic AT ALL. In fact, my legs were moving around in them all day.

I may not be an expert on the subject, but I can pretty much imagine that if I ever shed my skin like a snake, it would be a very deja vu experience.

Note to self: All blenders are not equal

Meet ProMix 474.

A frequent perk (?) to living in a city where people move in and away as quickly as the seasons change, I have by now inherited quite a sizeable collection of useful items. Like blenders.

Of course they are "gently used" items, though, and as the ProMix 474's last owners kindly noted as they lovingly gave her away, they were "not so sure how well it worked anymore".

Fast forward to tonight's tomato soup making. Of course, it SEEMED like the perfect chance to give the good ol' ProMix 474 a debut run, I mean, it had to be easier than getting my fingers all cramped up around my usual hand held puree "gun".
Dump chunky soup concotion in, slap lid on, give 'er some power (low!) and .... holy *@&#&^%#.

Let's just say that Old Faithful doesn't stand a chance against ProMix 474. And yes, Jojo and Robert, it most definitely works.

So well, in fact, that even my superwoman muscles couldn't hold the lid on ... when it was on low. You get the picture: Old Faithful geyser spewing chunky tomatoe and carrot puree up to the ceiling and on everything between there and the floor. This would include everything from my head down to my toes, ALL of the kitchen cabinets, ALL of the clean dishes sitting in the drying rack, two out of four sides of the refrigerator ... EVERYTHING covered in dripping chunkies that look suspiciously like "chuckies".

And those of you (like me) for whom "hyperactive gag reflex" is an understatement, I leave it to your imagination just how fun the cleaning up acidic chunky tomatoe carrot puree process entailed.

Note to self: ProMix 474 is a professional food puker.

Mysteries of domestic demise

This is my evil-eye beam of disgust at those "Improve-YOUR-life-today! (gleaming twinkle smile here)-experts" ... you know the ones, the ones who claim that making a to-do list and crossing off your accomplishments will make you feel like a real winner .... the ones who insist that keeping a spotless, peaceful home is just a snap away.

Well I've got news. If you've come to my house and found it spotless, it's only because the situation had become so desperately exasperating that I had to invite someone over just to force a mad-dash "quick! Clean before the guests come" manuveur. I don't know how it happens, really, seeing as I rarely seem to be home these days. I leave for a trip, cleaning right before I go, only to return to find half an inch of dust blanketing all that is visible and dust-bunnies that are practically big enought to be dust RABBITS happily frolicking beneath my bed, windows that have collected enough grime to nearly convince you that everyday's a grey day.

And YES, I do make to-do lists, thank you very much, but I have to admit I've become a WEE bit disenchanted with the whole gimmick.I mean I do laundry, I cross it off my fantabulous list, pat myself on the back for being such an accomplished woman just like the "experts" say I should and then, by golly, wouldn't you know, six hours later I have another heap of laundry looking up at me forlornly, meaning that it must be AGAIN included on the dang to-do list, to be yet AGAIN checked off ... it's a pointless perpetual circle, a real mystery of domestic demise.

Then there's the beast in the drain. Ladies, I know you've met this one. You know, the one that engorges itself on loose hairs that have escaped your attempts at early capture until it has finally grown so large that you stand in the shower and, by the end, might abe slightly confused as to whether you're actually taking a bath or a shower, based on the water level. If we're talking domestic mysteries, this one's gotta be at the top, right there alongside the habitual laundry room disappearance of socks. I've shoved forks, knives, and unwilling fingers down that black hole and still come up with nothin'. While I'll pass on the cheesy Ms. Domesticated car-sales-grin advice, I'd gladly hear you out if you've got any advice on mastering the drain beasties ...

Ode to my electric toothbush

Oh, how I missed you, dear toothbrush! I know, I know, mom and sissy painstakingly tried to convince me of your worth for months on months on months on end, me thinking you only an expensive, consumerist gimmick. The first time I tried you, my lips went numb, my gums tickled ... my sister laughed. And yet, after that first time, well, you know what they say, once you go electric you'll never go back - I, Little Miss Anti-Electric Toothbrush herself, bought an electric toothbrush.

How could I help it? Every time I brush with you, it is like getting a relaxing massage. My gums grow strong, my teeth sparkle; my tongue is a happy being. Oh, how proud my mother and dentist must be!

After a week of long work days in 10,000% humidity and dust, after a week of adrenaline rushes amid close-by suicide bombings and near constant military checkpoint searches, after a week of mouthwatering food so spicy that you unconsciously break out in a sweat in the company of fabulous new-found friends ... after more than twenty hours of travel to return home, I would imagine most people would be dreaming only of a hot shower and their own bed.

All I've dreamt of, however, is getting back to you, my electric toothbrush (well, among other people and things, of course). Home, sweet home indeed.

So what is it about mothers and staples?

So what is it about mothers, that when they discover that their ingenious, highly practical children have decided to skip the time consuming (and therefore inherently less practical) process of hemming their trousers "properly" and instead go the instantaneous and highly practical route of grabbing the nearest hand held stapler for a two-second pants shortening ... they go bezerk? They give you the you-didn't!-did-you?? smirk/glare, suddenly take on a horrifically embarrassed/apologetic role if anyone outside of the family happens to be around (as if such ingenious is somehow reflective of them!) and they quickly take your pants out of your hands only to run off and ever so kindly hem them "properly".

I think the first time I observed this phenomenon was when my younger brother had his pants stapled ... and somehow ended up at the hospital getting x-rays taken. X-ray + metal staples + questioning lab technicians = sheepishly embarrassed/apologetic mother. Daughter, however finds this strategy quite ingenious, having upgraded from duck tape to staples and continuing to prefer this tactic to"real" hemming even at the ripe old age of 25. I mean, really, how else can your pants be the perfect length whether you are wearing them with heels, tennis shoes or flip flops? We're talking versatility, adaptability AND convenience here, folks.

Enter Marcel, assigned to dress as a bit of a preppy geek as auctioneer for his sister's birthday charity auction. What does Yours Truly advise? Of course! A preppy geek auctioneer MUST have geeky short pants and no way better to arrange that than with your trusty ol' hand held stapler. Party was fun; auction was a success; short pants were definitely geeky; short, geeky, stapled pants lie to rest for weeks thereafter on the back of the chair in the kitchen.

So now, what happens when loving mother finds a pair of stapled pants lying on the back of a kitchen chair at her son's apartment? She does what every mother apparently does at the sight of a staple hem ... she gets the "I-can't-believe-you-did-this!!" smirk and eye roll, silently dies of embarrassment and takes them away for a "proper" hemming" while son is away for work ...

... And as son returns home to find the lovingly hemmed-to-Singer-perfection folded perfectly on the table, he thanks his lucky stars for wonderful mothers ... and for the fact that his new found high waders were not borne of a favorite pair of jeans!