Happy Humpday… WITHOUT a dryer fire, but potentially with mom jeans

Being it’s Wednesday, I have my weekly date-night/happy hour with “she who shall not be named.” (I’ve been having difficulty coming up with a character name for her that fits as well as Wizard of Oz characters did for my sisters. Any suggestions of high-maintenance, judgemental, bossy females would be appreciated. I’ve considered calling her “The Earl of Sandwich,” as she may become as historic a gambler as he (I have watched her eat at a slot machine before), but I don’t think she’ll want me referring to her as such, as I know she reads this blog).

I had these grand plans of getting up this morning and getting shit done. Shower, vacuum, a few other chores, and intended on posting last night’s dinner recipe (oh boy, is it a good one).

But once I was motivated to get moving (gotta hook the coffee drip up to my veins early so I can meet my caffeine overdose commitment by 10:00 am), I realized I had never moved my laundry from the washer (which had most of my jeans in it, including the pair I intended on wearing today) to the dryer the night before (probably because we all know how I feel about the basement after dark).

So I make my way down the stairs, thinking “I can blog while I wait for this to dry. Just gotta re-prioritize the list of tasks.”

Upon starting the dryer, it makes a “noise.”

I know you’re thinking, “Of course it makes a noise, you frittata. It’s an appliance. WTF?”

But no.

It sounded like I had added a bunch of rock salt or pennies into the thing.

I panic and stop the dryer.

Um. Ok. No pennies. No rock salt. Should I try starting it again? I mean, I really want to wear one of these pairs of jeans. My only other option would be the one pair of “mom” jeans I own, and I certainly can’t wear those tonight.

I start the dryer again. Same noise. I proceed to stand there for a moment and listen. I consider the possibility (because I ALWAYS assume the worst) that if I don’t stick around for a few minutes and make sure things are proceeding normally, the house will burn down due to a dryer fire, and I only have one carrier for two cats, and how am I going to get the animals out of the house and keep them safe? Seriously, this is the shit that goes through my head.

This is my dryer. Yes, it has a gigantic lint pile on top of it. Yes, I realize this would assist in the quick progression of a dryer fire. No, I don't know why neither myself nor my husband have addressed this situation (he says he's going to mold it into a lint bunny rabbit someday).

This is my dryer. Yes, it has a gigantic lint pile on top of it. Yes, I realize this would assist in the quick progression of a dryer fire. No, I don’t know why neither myself nor my husband have addressed this situation (he says he’s going to mold it into a lint bunny rabbit someday).

Then I hear it.

Something different.

What the f*** was that?

A strange “popping” sound comes from across the other end of the basement, in the direction of the Detective Stabler Room (this concept is explained in a previous post).

OH. MY. GOD.

Dilemma. Dryer fire or white walkers? Which would you choose? Because in my head, at that moment, those were the only two timelines my mind was willing to explore… because there’s obviously something wrong with me.

Just as in a nightmare, I freeze, paralyzed by the insane shit my brain conjures up.

And after about six seconds, the dryer is sounding slightly more normal, which is enough convincing for me to BOLT up the stairs without looking back. Not sure how I’m gonna get my laundry once it’s dry.

To top it off, the local media is doing nothing today other than covering the American Idol auditions taking place a few miles from where I live. Clearly, they don’t screen any of the folks they choose to sing on the morning news. I should have been in the shower and avoided this, but alas I am blogging and hearing the Twin Cities’ finest renditions of whale songs. I can’t believe Idol is still a thing.

So, Hermione (this seems like a better choice than Earl of Sandwich), if I show up wearing my mom jeans tonight, you’ll know why.

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How to Successfully Pull Off a Homicide

Like most human beings, I am a creature of habit. We all have routines we follow, and wake up each morning with a certain expectation of how each day will progress.

Except I bring this to an entirely new level.

I am ridiculously methodical about how I plan even the simplest of tasks. Take a trip to the grocery store, for example:

  • Make a list of what I intend to purchase.
Thai Peanut Pork is on the menu tonight.

Thai Peanut Pork is on the menu tonight.

  • Re-write the list in order of my regular path through the store, ensuring there will be no double backing due to a produce item being at the end of the list.
How did donuts end up on the list?

How did donuts end up on here?

  • Plan to leave the house sometime between 9:00 am and noon. Outside of this window I have to compete with morning rush hour traffic and soccer moms who have either just dropped their kids off at school or are running their errands before picking their kids up from school. There’s also the potential for a long line of “Lottery Ticket Ladies”, “Money Order Monsters” (seriously, why don’t you have a checking account?), or “Rug Doctor Renters” at the Service Center. All I want to do is buy a pack of cigarettes before I do my shopping so I don’t have to make a second stop at the gas station and be heckled for money by the riff-raff of St. Paul’s North End. While I realize this time window puts me at the mercy of elderly shoppers who block entire aisles with their carts and don’t hear you saying “excuse me” eight times in a progressively louder and more irritated tone… I have to pick my battles. I’d rather deal with that than being run over in aisle 12 by a soccer mom pushing her cart full speed because she’s already late to pick up the kids and doesn’t have my impeccable planning skills.
  • Make minor adjustments to the previous step if it’s summer and school is not in session. This usually results in an early grocery run to avoid the addition of kids bee-bopping around the store and J-walking across Rice Street.
  • Check to make sure the blow dryer and/or hair straightener are unplugged.
  • Check to make sure the cats have water (I mean, what if I’m in a car accident and no one is home for a few hours?)
  • Check to make sure lights/TV/etc. are off.
  • Check the blow dryer/hair straightener situation a second and potentially third time.
  • Do I have everything I need? (looks in purse, says to self, “phone, smokes, lighter, wallet, keys”).
  • Check the blow dryer again.
  • Leave the house. Make sure no cats are near the door (I have this strange fear of slamming one of their tails in the door).
  • Give the door knob a jiggle and push against the back door to ensure it’s locked.
  • Get in the car, only to immediately get out and check the back door again.
  • Arrive at the grocery store. Fuck. All three of my “usual” spots are occupied by other vehicles. I park one row closer to the store than typical.
  • Enter grocery store to discover THEY’RE MOVING EVERYTHING AROUND AND MY “PERFECTLY PLANNED – NO DOUBLE BACKING” LIST IS WORTHLESS!
  • Consider laying down on the floor and dying, but know that someone has to feed your husband, and muster up the courage press on.
  • Manage to find everything you need in the store without incident.
  • Upon exiting, experience a short panic attack when you do not immediately see your car, silently curse about the punk kids that stole your car, then remember that some bastards parked in your spaces, forcing you to adapt to the circumstances.
  • Arrive home and meticulously put groceries away according to temperature (frozen, refrigerated, pantry… in that order).

Can you imagine what I was like when I was planning a wedding?

In conclusion, don’t cross me. If I can spend this inordinate amount of time planning and adapting for a simple grocery store trip, imagine what I could do if I didn’t like you?