It happens. Shit, that is. And lord have mercy – it hits at the strangest times.


Like when you’re working on your bills and receipts, which is already harrowing enough, and you’re so danged focused that you don’t quite notice that odd smell, and then you lean your head back to stretch out your tense neck muscles and that’s when you see it. Smoke. At least a foot of it, at your ceiling. And you yell, “Holy shit!” because that’s how you do, and then you run to the washing machine. Yes – the washing machine – the thing that requires water to function correctly. And you quickly decipher that it may in fact be on fire. So you cut the power and as soon as you’re sure your house isn’t gonna burn down, you frantically try to clear the smoke from your home. Because, smoke, you know, stinks. (I’ve even heard tell it’s bad for the old lungs.) So you’re doing all you can on that front by yourself, because no matter how loudly you yell for your Mister, that guy just isn’t coming to help. (This is due entirely to the fact that he isn’t home, by the way.) And you finally get the danged smoke cleared – mostly – and then you assess the damage. The washer is truly dead. And your clothes, that last load of laundry for the week, is totally funkified from the smoke. And you start figuring out what your next steps will be.


And then you realize how very good it is that it all happened while you were home and could take care of it. The house did not burn down. The smoke is gone. Everything’s gonna be okay.


Lord have mercy…

Freak-Show of a Chick



So I’ve been going about my bid-ness, like always. And it has occurred to me that I may be a freak-show of a chick. From whence did I draw this conclusion? I’ll tell ya.


While doing laundry this week, I knew certain articles of clothing absolutely had to be washed, while others could wait. For example, socks and underpants are have-to items. Duh. Jeans, usually, can be worn a few times. And because of the danged drought, I push things as long as I can. Fewer clothes equals fewer loads equals less water. Makes sense, right?


So anyhoo – I was all prepared to wait on one pair of jeans, as I’d only worn them once since the last washing. And then I remembered I’d had cheese in one of the pockets. And I know that sounds crazy, but clearly it’s possible as it happened to me. So into the wash went the jeans.


Having cheese in my pants pocket does not a freak-show make. I mean, that could happen to anyone. (It could, couldn’t it?) I’ve experienced many events that, though odd, didn’t make me nuts. I’ve jumped out of an airplane. I’ve auditioned – cold – for “Rent.” There have been topless photos shown on CNN Europe. (Not gonna explain that one.) I’ve run for my life from a chain-wielding gang in a desolate urban landscape. I’ve been mistaken for Marie Fredriksson of “Roxette” and gotten perks because of it – and I never did set the record straight. I once faked a terrible cockney accent for a full 2 hours, while enjoying a late-night hansom cab ride through New York. (It cost a full $25 and the driver stopped and got a couple of tall boys for me and my friend.) Oh – and I speak squirrel.


None of that makes me a freak-show. It just makes me, well, me. And now that I’ve been traveling down memory lane, I have to tell you – a little cheese in my pants pockets doesn’t seem that odd. Not at all.

Back on Land



Over the weekend I was at sea. I am seriously happy to be back on land. All the sordid details are forthcoming, but today I’m doing laundry and sorting through about a jillion emails.


So I ask for your patience, please, and know that I adore you and think you’re special. Because you are. And I’ll update you on the flip-flop. Promise.

Chores, Chores, Chores



Now that Rock Camp is over for me, I’m playing catch-up on all my chores. And y’all, I’m playing catch-up – hard.


If anyone nears my house and hears a gal crying for help, from beneath a gi-normous pile of laundry, send help.

Time – Sock It To Me



A friend and I were e-conversing and he mentioned that he was tight on time, that it seemed he had misplaced any and all spare time he might have had.


His thoughts got me thinking about time. About life. And it occurred to me that life is like a great, big dryer. And time is like socks. Who hasn’t experienced the lost-sock-in-the-dryer syndrome?


Time does seem to get misplaced, doesn’t it? It’s amazing. No matter how well-planned our schedules, time just disappears once in a while. Just like socks in the dryer.


I’m not giving up on time, though. I still believe in planning, and I still plan to set goals. Will I lose some time here and there? Sure. But I happen to love laundry day. I love the fresh smell of clean clothes. If the dryer of life loses a sock of time here and there, well, okay. After all, you’ve got to burn a pancake now and then.


Wait… Wrong metaphor.

Oh! The Ironing!



This is my mountain of ironing. It has piled up. And multiplied. To look at it, you probably can’t tell there’s at least 2 and a half hours of work involved. At this point, I can either burn it all in the backyard or just iron the danged stuff.


It’s windy today. I guess a backyard fire really isn’t the prudent choice, huh?


Oh! The Ironing!