The Post In Which I Burn the House Down

Isn't this AWESOME!  I found this today in the soup aisle at Kroger.
I LOVE grilled cheese sammiches.  Those who know me well know that my death row dinner choice is grilled cheese and crinkle cut french fries-or steak fries-with ranch dressing.

I can't tell you how long I've looked for a way to idiot-proof grilled cheese making.  The only reason I don't make one every day is because it's a bit labor intensive with the butter and the pan and all.  (I say this almost completely sincerely.)

This thing has "As Seen on TV" written all over it-which means of course I had to buy it.  In some ways, I am older than my years and recognize that As Seen on TV products-and this product too, even though it isn't As Seen on TV, it should be-are the cutting edge of technology.  Let the others scoff.  They will wish they could simply & easily make grilled cheeses like I can now.  

If I never post again, it will be because I was a victim of false advertising and making grilled cheese in the toaster is actually the best way to burn down your house.

Let's Play Hide & Seek

I have spinach in my teeth.  A wad wrapped firmly around my Dracula tooth.  I've been sawing at it like Paul Bunyan for half the evening.  It's going no where.

I give up and go turn on the t.v. (OK...  I try to turn on the t.v.  I don't really know how...) but my tongue keeps going back to that blob.  Have you ever noticed how tongues will do that?  It's like they have a mind of their own; they know when something isn't supposed to be there.  (I think this might be a great scientific study for my tax dollars: Tongues.  What do they know?)
I go back to the bathroom.  I no sooner arrive than I forget why I came in there.  "I must need to pee" I say to no one.  So I pee and go back to my struggle with the remote control.  Before my tush hits the cushions, I remember.  Spinach.
Back to the bathroom-this process repeats itself more times than I care to admit-until I begin to chant "spinach, spinach, spin-ach" down the hall until I reach my destination.
I brush my teeth.  Not budging.  Man, this is some spinach.  I break out a fresh string of floss and go to work.  It moves a bit.  I smile at the mirror.  Still there.  Lovely.  I start making faces-Calvin & Hobbes faces-at the mirror.
"What are you? Six?" says my adult voice.  Then I start laughing at the face staring back at me.  I'm starting to have fun...  I blame this behavior on the fact that I'm a bonus baby.  I'm accustomed to entertaining myself.

A bonus baby is that kid you have when you think you can't have kids anymore--that kid who shows up when your other kids are 9-10-12 years old.  My mother cried when she found out she was pregnant with me-and not tears of joy.  I've got some great bonus baby stories... next time.  Just let me leave these two words for my older friends still within child-bearing years: BIRTH. CONTROL.

When I was little, all I wanted to do was hang out with my siblings.  They were so cool; they got to do so many fun things--without me.  Their friends would come over and they'd play Hide & Seek.  I'd shout "can I play too? Pleeease??"
"Sure" they'd say.  "You go hide and we'll come find you."  Yay!  They let me play too!!
Now, where to hide?  I look around.  Ah, perfect.  A boxwood hedge at the front of the house.  I was small enough that I could crawl up in it like it was a little mini-tree.  They never found me.  Do I need to spell this out for you?  Let me: if you never look for something, you never find it.
They never found me.

But the wasps who had built a nest in the boxwood... they found me.

I remember that evening well.  Sitting on the bathroom vanity, wailing--partly because, jeez, it hurt and partly because my feelings were hurt, while Mama used tweezers to pluck out every last stinger with this "why me" look on her face.  Come to think of it, she had that look a lot.

My gums are bleeding while that tale crosses my mind, digging with all my might at that blasted piece of spinach.  And then it occurs to me....

Tweezers.

Spinach.

Gone.

The Pedicure

Since I'll be working through the weekend & I got off a little early today, I decided to give myself a little treat.  What to do?  Easy decision.  There's precious little in the world that I enjoy more than a pedicure.

And since this was a spontaneous decision, I was woefully ill-prepared, clad in my dress pants and riding boots.  But the nail salon is right next to a Dollar General (classy, I know) so I could just pick up a pair of flip flops there.

News Flash: Dollar General doesn't have their flip flops out yet.  So I end up buying a pair of granny house slippers.  I'm totally going to Kroger after this, I thought to myself.  I've always wanted to know what it was like to traipse through Kroger in my slippers like so many people do these day.  I did it once before, but that time I was walking that fine line between the flu & runny nose zombieism, so the only reaction I got that time was pity.  This time: check it!  Yo!  I'm all gangsta & my toes are perfect!

Anyway...

 They may be next to a Dollar General, but my nail salon has a pretty upscale feel to it.  It's the kind of place where they offer you a complimentary glass of wine.  You may choose between white or pink ...  I know this is hard to believe, but I pass on the wine.  Pink wine = Boone's Farm.  No thanks.  I have enough problems.  Like this insane desire to walk through Kroger in granny house slippers.

I am assisted immediately by a young man who seats me in the massage chair.  First of all, I'm short and those things are programed to service someone at least 5" taller than I am.  If I were 5" taller, the chair would be squeezing my shoulders at the base of my neck instead of pinching the back of my head like a grape.  The second reason... well, I'll just be blunt.  I have big boobs.  I jiggle plenty by myself.  I don't need a machine to add to it.  So the massage chair is not my favorite part.  I usually try to catch them before they turn it on, but today I failed so I decided to just roll with it.

Then I was instructed to roll up my pant legs.  Oh yeah.  Sorry, cute little Vietnamese hipster boy with the sassy haircut I was shooting for the last time I had my hair cut-instead of the Girl Interrupted chop job that I got.  Soooooooo sorry.  You see, it's not quite Spring yet and I live in a drafty old house.  It's pragmatic to not shave during the winter--yeah, pragmatic.  Saves on heat bills.  Soooooooo sorry.  He didn't seem to care.

There's no moral to this story.  I just thought I'd share.  I impulsively had a pedicure today.  I was embarrassed that I hadn't shaved my legs and even more embarrassed that I had to walk out to my car in granny house slippers.  Maybe the lesson is this: don't worry about what other people think, enjoy your pedicure and put a pair of flip-flops in your car, girl.