Stored Memories & Domestic Trivia

Yesterday, i went to Colorado Springs to start dealing with the storage i have there. It's been percolating for 7 years. Odd, how so much of it i didn't even recall having. Not that i remembered after i saw it--i mean, i saw it and still didn't remember having it.
Weirdness.

The first surprise was when i opened the door. For those of you my age and older, you might think "Fibber McGee's closet..." For the rest of you, I'm not sure what analogy you'd think of. But i needed a heavy duty shoehorn to start getting that stuff out.

The second surprise was how, all these years, i pictured it as a bigger room, and not packed so tight. Like i expected to be able to just walk in without moving anything. Funny, how our minds superimpose ideas that aren't even accurate. (That's why eye witnesses are considered the most unreliable testimony).

Picking through it, i had to open boxes to see what was in them, and it was very much like Xmas. I didn't know what i was going to find, and sometimes it was a pleasant surprise. Things i had forgotten, things that engendered good memories, things that made me maudlin. Photographs, bedding, art, books, my handwritten journals. All of it gave me some kind of emotion.

I've got lots of work to do this month, selecting what to keep and what to sell on Craigslist, and what to toss or donate.

My apartment, alas, is still not put together completely. It's hard for me to get all the things i need in the bedroom. Since i record music, write, sleep in this room, it's all packed in tight. If it becomes too claustrophobic, i may have to give up that great dining room table and use that spot for my office. I had this idea that i would have dinner parties.. Who am i kidding? That kitchen is meant for people who don't cook. No storage at all.

But I'm still happy I'm here.

I'll adjust to those domestic challenges and finally have the life i've wanted for so long. Colorado is a great place to have your mid-life crisis.

It's all good.

Stored Memories & Domestic Trivia

Slippity Doo Dah

(or, "I Don't Love my OTHER Shoes")

I've always known that certain footwear was dangerous. The most common culprit in my mind is the high heel-pump-stiletto family of shoes. Aside from the usual hazard of balancing on something so precarious as a shoe with a peg under it (although Pirate-amputees seemed to have mastered it), or in the case of a stiletto, (essentially walking on a PENCIL), there is a profound discomfort to be had in the awkward position of the foot, and the disfiguration that takes place as a woman gets older while partaking of this footwear. Have you looked at 50 or 60 year old woman's foot after she's worn high heels her whole life? It looks like pointy shoes with skin on it, or like her feet have been stricken with a genetic defect. It is beyond comprehension that a woman will do this to herself, often only to make her legs look attractive for men. Not only is it a health hazard for what it does to one's knees, but it doesn't allow a woman to run...and i feel that this is something that women ought to be able to do, for many reasons, which i won't get into here.

But, regardless, I was convinced that a MAN invented the high heel, and as i Googled it to find out, i discovered that this was true, but they invented them for MEN. It seems they needed a shoe that wouldn't slip in the stirrups while riding horseback. Then the style became more of a fashion statement for royalty in the 1500's. Then a female member of royalty adopted the style and women began to wear heels after that. Women discovered that wearing heels made their gate and calves more alluring and sensualized...for the benefit of admiring males.

But even high hells have nothing on the footwear that graces the tootsies of homebodies nation-wide. Nothing is more treacherous than that unassuming pair of footwear that can be found in every household…often they exude comfort, they are the very essence of comfort and repose, but secretly, this footwear is an accident waiting to happen.

I speak of the open heeled house slipper. They don't call it a "slipper" for nothing. Don't be fooled by the padded faux lambs wool, and the cushiness of its sole. Any number of things can go awry with these hideous houseshoes, these sinister slippers. There is absolutely nothing holding them on your feet except your good intentions. You can be taking a step and one of them will slip off, fold over, and crinkle your toes. They can slide off kilter and make you twist your ankle; it's even worse if you're on uneven terrain. Many homes are one-level, and one can scoot along without lifting one's feet, enjoying the gleeful combination of static electricity and unsuspecting cats, (Here kitty kitty…ZZZZZAP!) but this just lulls you into a false sense of security. For eventually, you will lift a foot and it will all be over. You'll find yourself stumbling, mashing the cat's tail, dropping your fresh cup of coffee, banging your head on a railing and cracking every toe-knuckle you have. And squishing your cream cheese bagel into your right ear. It can be even worse than that.

For instance, I am writing this at the foot of my staircase.

I'm going to need a few more minutes before attempting to get up. And when I do, I'm going to put on some sneakers, and use my open-heeled house slippers as cat toys. Maybe they can put their little arms inside them when the basement gets too chilly. Or maybe I'll put them in my lap and use them for hand warmers, myself. But they will never again go on my feet. Especially not right now, since I can't bend over without aggravating those seven slipped discs in my back.

Slippity Doo Dah

Coffee, Stupidity, Insanity & Germs

Amazing, how she can write so much about coffee and the mundane moments within her domestic trivia. Go ahead and say it now and get it over with. I know you want to... Domestica ^(tm) is one of my subjects, because I'm a domestic sort. Or domesticated. In my domicile, independent and cut off from the outside world. Except for the Internet, which IS the world, really, so...notsamuch.

Anyhoo, moving on...My first sip of coffee today was too hot. I just burned the hair off my tongue. I hear you saying, "There is no hair on your tongue."

To which i respond, "Not Now!"

See, this happens frequently. You'd think I'd learn. The definition of stupidity is doing something the same way and expecting a different result. . .some say that's the definition of insanity, but I think it fits stupidity better. Insane people do much more interesting things, and sometimes I write about that too. But I don't consider myself either stupid or insane, so there has to be some other reason why I have burned my tongue on coffee more than once.

Masochism?
No. I don't like pain. I don't even like spankings when they're sexual. (Freak! stop hitting me! You're supposed to be trying to bring pleasure, fer chrissakes!!)

So the best explanation I can come up with, is that I'm forgetful. I think i wrote a blog about that before, but....not sure. Note to self: take more Ginkgo Biloba.

I'm uncertain as to how this current burning happened though. Maybe it had something to do with the release of heat from my cup since I put it in the microwave, because I cleaned the skin off the inside of it (residue from yesterday), and then imagined all the germs one can get from swishing around a sponge on a stick, after it has been swishing all over everything else in the kitchen...I was reminded of that compelling and oddly disturbing commercial where the housewife (sorry, Domestic Engineer) was gleefully wiping down her kitchen with a raw hindquarter of a chicken. Point taken. (Who says we are immune to advertising?)

So I put the mug in the microwave, soon followed by the sponge-on-a-stick and the dishcloth... because I read on Web M.D. that nuking wet sponges and dishcloths in the microwave for two minutes, destroys almost every germ known to woman--99%, according to the study. So of course, I had to put the coffee cup in the microwave too, since it had been contaminated by the germy dish- sponge- on- a-handle-acting as-a-raw-chicken-leg.

I swear my coffee tastes a little different than normal.
Less germy, maybe.

Still, my cup runneth over...into my mouth. Or onto the floor. I'm always spilling it...either way, time for refill. Or as I prefer to call it, another brain infusion.

----------------------
*Domestica ^(tm) is one of my past websites, which i intend to resurrect at some point in the near future.

Coffee, Stupidity, Insanity & Germs

Coffee, Stupidity, Insanity & Germs

Amazing, how she can write so much about coffee and the mundane moments within her domestic trivia. Go ahead and say it now and get it over with. I know you want to... Domestica ^(tm) is one of my subjects, because I'm a domestic sort. Or domesticated. In my domicile, independent and cut off from the outside world. Except for the Internet, which IS the world, really, so...notsamuch.

Anyhoo, moving on...My first sip of coffee today was too hot. I just burned the hair off my tongue. I hear you saying, "There is no hair on your tongue."

To which i respond, "Not Now!"

See, this happens frequently. You'd think I'd learn. The definition of stupidity is doing something the same way and expecting a different result. . .some say that's the definition of insanity, but I think it fits stupidity better. Insane people do much more interesting things, and sometimes I write about that too. But I don't consider myself either stupid or insane, so there has to be some other reason why I have burned my tongue on coffee more than once.

Masochism?
No. I don't like pain. I don't even like spankings when they're sexual. (Freak! stop hitting me! You're supposed to be trying to bring pleasure, fer chrissakes!!)

So the best explanation I can come up with, is that I'm forgetful. I think i wrote a blog about that before, but....not sure. Note to self: take more Ginkgo Biloba.

I'm uncertain as to how this current burning happened though. Maybe it had something to do with the release of heat from my cup since I put it in the microwave, because I cleaned the skin off the inside of it (residue from yesterday), and then imagined all the germs one can get from swishing around a sponge on a stick, after it has been swishing all over everything else in the kitchen...I was reminded of that compelling and oddly disturbing commercial where the housewife (sorry, Domestic Engineer) was gleefully wiping down her kitchen with a raw hindquarter of a chicken. Point taken. (Who says we are immune to advertising?)

So I put the mug in the microwave, soon followed by the sponge-on-a-stick and the dishcloth... because I read on Web M.D. that nuking wet sponges and dishcloths in the microwave for two minutes, destroys almost every germ known to woman--99%, according to the study. So of course, I had to put the coffee cup in the microwave too, since it had been contaminated by the germy dish- sponge- on- a-handle-acting as-a-raw-chicken-leg.

I swear my coffee tastes a little different than normal.
Less germy, maybe.

Still, my cup runneth over...into my mouth. Or onto the floor. I'm always spilling it...either way, time for refill. Or as I prefer to call it, another brain infusion.

----------------------
*Domestica ^(tm) is one of my past websites, which i intend to resurrect at some point in the near future.

Coffee, Stupidity, Insanity & Germs

Slippity Doo Dah

(or, "I Don't Love my OTHER Shoes")

I've always known that certain footwear was dangerous. The most common culprit in my mind is the high heel-pump-stiletto family of shoes. Aside from the usual hazard of balancing on something so precarious as a shoe with a peg under it (although Pirate-amputees seemed to have mastered it), or in the case of a stiletto, (essentially walking on a PENCIL), there is a profound discomfort to be had in the awkward position of the foot, and the disfiguration that takes place as a woman gets older while partaking of this footwear. Have you looked at 50 or 60 year old woman's foot after she's worn high heels her whole life? It looks like pointy shoes with skin on it, or like her feet have been stricken with a genetic defect. It is beyond comprehension that a woman will do this to herself, often only to make her legs look attractive for men. Not only is it a health hazard for what it does to one's knees, but it doesn't allow a woman to run...and i feel that this is something that women ought to be able to do, for many reasons, which i won't get into here.

But, regardless, I was convinced that a MAN invented the high heel, and as i Googled it to find out, i discovered that this was true, but they invented them for MEN. It seems they needed a shoe that wouldn't slip in the stirrups while riding horseback. Then the style became more of a fashion statement for royalty in the 1500's. Then a female member of royalty adopted the style and women began to wear heels after that. Women discovered that wearing heels made their gate and calves more alluring and sensualized...for the benefit of admiring males.

But even high hells have nothing on the footwear that graces the tootsies of homebodies nation-wide. Nothing is more treacherous than that unassuming pair of footwear that can be found in every household…often they exude comfort, they are the very essence of comfort and repose, but secretly, this footwear is an accident waiting to happen.

I speak of the open heeled house slipper. They don't call it a "slipper" for nothing. Don't be fooled by the padded faux lambs wool, and the cushiness of its sole. Any number of things can go awry with these hideous houseshoes, these sinister slippers. There is absolutely nothing holding them on your feet except your good intentions. You can be taking a step and one of them will slip off, fold over, and crinkle your toes. They can slide off kilter and make you twist your ankle; it's even worse if you're on uneven terrain. Many homes are one-level, and one can scoot along without lifting one's feet, enjoying the gleeful combination of static electricity and unsuspecting cats, (Here kitty kitty…ZZZZZAP!) but this just lulls you into a false sense of security. For eventually, you will lift a foot and it will all be over. You'll find yourself stumbling, mashing the cat's tail, dropping your fresh cup of coffee, banging your head on a railing and cracking every toe-knuckle you have. And squishing your cream cheese bagel into your right ear. It can be even worse than that.

For instance, I am writing this at the foot of my staircase.

I'm going to need a few more minutes before attempting to get up. And when I do, I'm going to put on some sneakers, and use my open-heeled house slippers as cat toys. Maybe they can put their little arms inside them when the basement gets too chilly. Or maybe I'll put them in my lap and use them for hand warmers, myself. But they will never again go on my feet. Especially not right now, since I can't bend over without aggravating those seven slipped discs in my back.

Slippity Doo Dah