It's not Friday, but I feel like doing a fragmented post today. Lots of little stuff keeping me busy!
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Last Thursday night, Miss Chef and I enjoyed our one weeknight together, going out to a restaurant and relaxing at home. Around 9:00, I remembered I'd wanted to get a load of wash going. We were still lounging around the living room an hour or so later, when I remembered the load and got up to go put the clothes in the dryer.
When I lifted the lid, I found myself staring at a washer full of dirty water and wet clothes. Ignorant of the doom that had just befallen us, I advanced the dial to the next section where the machine kicked into action, and left it merrily agitating away.
A little while later, I saw Miss Chef cocking her head, looking like she needed to expel something. "I was listening for the washer," she explained, "but I don't hear it."
So after some more clickety-clacketing around the washer dial, we finally accepted what I'm sure the rest of you have been hollering at your screen: it's broken! And of course, it was full of Miss Chef's jackets and work pants. That she needed. For work. Both works.
The next day after work, I hauled the clothes out, rinsed them--three times!--in the bathtub, and wringed them (wrung them? wrangled them?) by hand. Lemme tell you, I have a new appreciation for the expressions wringing wet, sopping wet and soaking wet.
I also would like to go back in time and see the incredibly muscled arms and hands washerwomen must have had a century or two ago. As a co-worker remarked, "Yeah, and the kids back then didn't act up, 'cause when they got smacked, they felt it!"
I guess I should be thankful that it's summer, and that it hasn't been raining too much, so that I've been able to hang my poorly wrung clothes in the sun to drip out, before tossing them in the dryer. But I'm mostly thankful that Miss Chef got her first paycheck from the school two days after the washer broke. Because our new washer will be delivered this Saturday.
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Speaking of working those muscles, I'm very proud of myself for keeping up, more or less, with my new exercise plan. I've dropped tai chi, as it just doesn't make sense to me from just watching the dvd. Instead, I found another yoga dvd that Miss Chef had bought herself and didn't like. It took me a few tries, but I've adapted to this new "instructor," and have actually found myself enjoying it!
I haven't been totally disciplined about my program. I originally planned to do it twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays. Or maybe Mondays and Fridays. Or maybe just Monday...or, um, Tuesday, 'cause Monday I had to hand-wash some, erm, important items.
Still, I think I've managed to do the whole workout once a week. Not bad, for an otherwise total slacker! And it's quite a workout too. The dvd player shows an hour and ten minutes at the end, but there's a good five or ten minutes of blah-blah at the beginning, and of course the last ten or fifteen minutes or so is dedicated to my favorite pose, and a big part of the reason I like yoga: corpse pose.
Ok, call it relaxation pose. Either way, you lie on the floor, your body thrumming with heightened circulation and breathing, and you let the instructor's voice lead you through step-by-step relaxation. You're too jazzed to fall asleep, but by the time you're done, you're relaxed and alert. Ready to take on a whole load of laundry! Or not. I walked the dog instead. But I did it with vigor, dammit.
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Speaking of my darling Rosie, she was the subject of a phone call I got yesterday. Miss Chef had the morning off, preparing for classes and generally getting ready for her busy week. Sometime after lunch, I was surprised to see her number come up on my office phone.
"I just had to tell you what I caught Rosie doing." Uh oh.
Miss Chef had let the dog out in our (newly-fenced) yard, and was a little surprised a few minutes later that she couldn't see her. Rosie's a homebody, and likes to stick close to the door in case we want to let her in again, maybe for a belly rub. Or to lick a plate. Or both. Whatever.
Anyway, Miss Chef finally spotted our fluffy one, smack in the middle of the garden! She thought maybe a rabbit had been in there, and Rosie was simply following the scent trail.
But instead of a rabbit, Rosie reached up and grabbed a tomato! Right off the plant! Then she trotted happily off with her new snack.
Miss Chef said she had to laugh for a good two or three minutes before calling Rosie over and getting the tomato away from her. Of course, Rosie didn't understand why.
I'll tell you why, Miss Rose. You pull a few weeds, chase a few rabbits, and then we'll talk. 'Til then, stick to the cherry tomatoes, ok?
Update, Wednesday evening: I was outside harvesting more tomatoes tonight, and noticed Rosie sniffing long and hard at a low-hanging, very green tomato. She eventually decided she didn't want it. Perhaps she was judging how long until it would be ripe? To keep her happy, I shared a few split cherry tomatoes. Somehow, I don't think that will satisfy her. We may have created a monster.