Dish Washer
Recently, I noticed a certain deterioration in the performance of the dishwasher. One by one, the buttons stopped working. “Pots and pans” died. “Heavy wash” died. “Normal wash” died. I was down to “Light wash.”
I had a repairman take a look. Prognosis: A new electronic pad unit thingamabob, $200 for the part, yada-yada, and I decided—with a surge of energetic, disciplined vim that I, whose ancestors crossed the ocean on a boat . . . that I, who have camped in the wilderness and washed my mess kit in a stream . . . that I, who generally only have dishes for one—could certainly live without a dishwasher for a while.
And so, my friends, I washed dishes by hand. And, you know what? It was soothing. It was a sort of Zen thing. It made me wax philosophical about this rush-rush-rush world we live in.
The next day, I decided that the “Light wash” cycle was, you know, probably fine really, and, while loading up the dishwasher, I noticed this plastic rectangular bit (inside the door, opposite the not-working buttons) that looked as if it would pop right out. And it would. And I did.
Journey to Stupidville. Step 1.
Then, I noticed the screws around the edge of the inside door. I’d turn back if I were you!
With the door taken apart, I came upon this bit of bulky black plastic (with electrocution warnings) that also looked as if it would pop right off. And it would. And I did.
(Yes, I turned the power off first.)
And then, as I realized, sigh and rats, that I couldn’t access the buttons anyway, I decided to put it all back together again. And that was when the entire top third of the inner door fell out of the doorframe.
Ah. Yes. Hmmmm.
I attempted to put it back together for quite some time while staving off a wave of fear, panic, and completely unjustified astonishment. No go.
I did indeed consider picking up the phone to call the repairman or my Dad. But, the Unsinkable Molly Brown Maniac in my head suggested I try again.
After another hour or so of fumbling, straining, cussing, and wishing for a third hand to reach the screwdriver . . . it was, suddenly, somehow, some it-can’t-be-right way back together. I tightened the screws. I pushed the “Pots and pans” button. (Nothing.) “Heavy wash.” (Nothing.) “Normal wash.” (Nothing.) “Light wash.” (Ah, the little green light comes on, water begins to run.) I stood watch, truly fascinated at the lack of leaks and/or explosions. I shook my head at my wasted efforts but breathed a sigh, saluted the Gods of Dumb Luck (who prefer offerings of icy cold beer), and promised myself to call the repairman very soon.
So.
Last night, I loaded up the dishwasher, and pushed a button—in the way I have been doing since it started to stop working, pressing each button in a row until I get to one that works. I hit the “Pots and pans” button, and, as I slid my finger to the “Heavy wash” button, um, Hel-lo. The little green light under “Pots and pans” is on?! and the water is running?! The dishwasher had started up! On “Pots and pans”! It also started on “Heavy wash” and “Normal wash.” Every. Single. Button. Is. Working. Now.
Awesome! Amazing! Freakin’ sweet! Mwa-ha-ha! Mwa-ha-ha, in your face dishwasher. I won! I won! I won! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! I WON!
Hooray!
{On the other hand, I can’t help thinking this is positive reinforcement of the very worst kind.}
One Side of a Telephone Conversation
Hello? Spring?
Yeah. What’s going on? Where are you? You said you’d be back. We had plans.
Really? Well, I saw a robin yesterday. It tried to alight on a tree limb—which was covered in snow—and then it tried to alight on the ground beneath the tree—which was covered in snow—and then it sort of skittered onto the parking lot, bewilderedly chirping.
Well, I don’t speak bird, but I’m pretty sure it was “WTF.”
Yeah. The robins are here. Yes, they are.
Seriously? You’ve had 9 months’ vacation. Guess what, the rest of humanity gets 2-3 weeks. So spare me.
The time change? The time change! Don’t make me laugh. We’re all a little messed up from the time change, but it’s been over a week now. And you’re in Hawaii, where there is no time change.
You think I’m dumb?
Excuse me? Chill out, my furry butt! We’re all CHILL. Oh we’re very chill all right.
Do I? Do I sound stressed? Yeah? Yeah, well, the fear of imminent death is a tad stressful.
Dramatic? Have you checked facebook lately? Do you have any idea what I’m going through here? Well, maybe it’s time you think about someone else besides yourself. Maybe it’s time you think about me, your cousin Phil, the good ol’ ground hog who’s back here trying to cover for you.
Yeah. You said you’d be back early. Yeah, I told everybody.
They want to kill me.
I look like an ass.
Yeah, well, either you put down the mai tai, say good-bye to your cabana boy, and get your butt back on a plane to Pennsylvania. Or. I’ll tell Mother.
You wanna bet on that? Try to remember what she’s been like over the past year.
Okay, this weekend? You promise? You better.
Bye.
Keep An Eye Out for Amys
Sometimes a life preserver moment comes from seeing another person that you care about do something that makes you happy. Fantabulous mini-moments when you know to your toes that the World really is an okay place. They can catch you by surprise and change your day. It’s espresso for the soul.
Today, I’m sharing a vlog from a girl named Amy. An amazing sweetheart who I’ve known pretty much since she was born. One of those kids who makes you believe that the next generation will do just fine.
She had a dream to go to Disney World and work there as part of a college program.
Note: Disney is a spot that is near and dear to my own heart. When I was 10 years old, my aunt and uncle took me, my brother, and my sister there. 
When I turned 30, I went again with some friends and cousins. At the time, I joked that I would just have to go back to Disney every 20 years. (Hard to believe it’s time again.) (Yes, I’m going.) But, enough about me.
This week, after lots of preparation, much hard work, timely follow-through, oodles of creativity, a bushel of enthusiasm, and support from her awesome parents I’m sure, my young friend Amy made her dream come true and arrived in Disney. She posted this
I clicked through that video to discover her vlog, which led me to this gem
It’s a bit of reality that feels like, well, a Disney movie. Yes, I teared up watching it. (Hell, I’m tearing up writing about watching it.) But they’re happy tears, and that’s life-preserving stuff.
So, have a good day. Find optimism. Seek joy. Keep an eye out for Amys.
The 40-day Resolution
Over the past couple of days, I’ve been thinking about what my resolution should be for 2013. There is a long list of potentials.
I want to lose weight, eat healthy, exercise more. I could commit to changing bad habits, to being kinder, to swearing less while driving. I could make a firm commitment to clean the litter box every day or to never leave dirty dishes in the sink or to stop leaving clothes in the dryer until they’re so wrinkled I have to re-wash them. I could promise to talk to a tree guy about the once-weeds-soon-to-be-trees growing under my porch. I could return the busted comcast console that’s been boxed up and sitting in my basement for over a year. I could vow to write to my out-of-town nephews more often. I could say I’m going to wash my car once a week and clean out the papers, scarves, shoes, litter, water bottles, and who-knows-what-else on a more frequent basis so that there doesn’t appear to be a homeless person wintering in my back seat. I could start that novel. Or, at least, try to find a way to get all of the poems and short stories I’ve written off of two broken laptops, the old tower, and the stack of floppy disks. I should get my inbox back to zero (or, at least, lower than 1400 unread). I really should play the piano more often, and I want to learn to play my grandfather’s accordion. I could make a resolution to do more pro bono freelance jobs or hands-on volunteer work. I’d like to find a job that helps make the world a better place but still pays the bills. I could promise myself to be less shy, more hopeful, and at least make some attempt to assist the universe in bringing true love into my life. I could promise myself to cook a real dinner more often. I could stop cutting my own bangs. I could get organized. I really need to paint (walls, not canvases). I could promise to start doing one of those brain games that helps you improve your memory, so then I could promise not to forget stuff so much. I could resolve to get new glasses or go to the dentist. I could commit to cleaning out the garage and basement and sorting through the junk and making an overdue trip to Goodwill.
Yep. There are a lot of things I could focus on that would make for an acceptable, sensible resolution. Things to help make me a happier person or a more valuable member of society. A better friend, a better daughter, a better sibling, a better neighbor.
But, as things go quiet, with the hub-bubious distractions of the holiday season behind me, the goal has become obvious. Like a deer facing headlights on a dark and stormy night, like a track-tied damsel spotting the oncoming train, I see it clearly. I have 40 days. And there is but one resolution I can make.
I hereby resolve to do everything in my power to avoid a complete and utter, bug-eyed, jaw-dropped, screaming banshee, Don-Knottian, Daffy-Duckian, Thelma-and-Louisian, all-out-batshit-freakout when I turn 50.
Stop Watching
Recent events have magnified my existing opinion that watching news programs (like CNN and Fox News) should be avoided. It’s voyeuristic. It’s rude. It’s wrong.
These entertainment-conglomerate-owned programs barely meet the requirements of journalism on a normal day. They are no longer staffed by journalists. They don’t appear to be at all concerned with being factual or unbiased. They spin; they manipulate; they squawk. They seek attention like a two-year-old in a very dirty diaper.
As bad as they are on a regular day, when a tragedy occurs, they are worse. So much worse.
I’m not preaching at anyone here. I have done it myself–been unable to look away, watched a situation for hours or even days. But I’m not going to do that anymore; this is a change I am making. This is a vow.
When faced with tragedy, human beings help. They reach out. They pitch in. They can–when a depth of understanding exists, when someone has been a friend for many many years–soften grief with a look, a touch, or the special language of intimates.
It’s one of the really beautiful things about humans, and I still believe it is true of the vast majority.
The problem is, when there is nothing you can do, when there is no action you can take, when you are not connected to those in pain, it is easy to get sucked into the news program. It may provide a false sense of relief (something that almost feels like grieving). Or it may seem disrespectful to not pay attention. Or, it can also be hypnotic; it can be hard to look away.
But what if we did? What if we all stopped watching shows like CNN and Fox News?
What if we all picked up the remote and pushed a button and said, “No.”
What if we said No to a paparazzi approach to the world? What if we said No to the frenzy and the falseness? What if we said No to the lack of depth, the lack of common sense, the over-dramatic narcissism? What if we said No to pretending that hundreds of total strangers with microphones and cameras descend on a community because they care? What if we said No to this expanding and disturbing intrusiveness that seeks to make all of us part of something quite creepy?
Do any of us need to know what happened in Newtown–at the level it is being reported–to be able to be respectful or to be able to say a prayer for those concerned?
No.
Do we need a total stranger to tell us how to feel about this? Does some talking head on TV know your family better than you do?
No.
In this world of more than 7 billion humans, do we need to focus on those who do evil? (or the spoiled, stupid, drunken celebrity? or the sex lives of politicians?)
No.
Do I want to be even one tiny part of the reason a reporter feels justified in knocking on the door of a grief-stricken parent?
No.
I’m not suggesting we all put our heads in the sand. We do need to be aware of the world around us. We need to be informed of dangers. We need to notice when someone else needs help. But in this mass-media world, we need to be careful about what we let into our brains, what we let into our hearts, what’s seeping into the collective psyche.
Read the paper. Get involved in your own community. Watch a legitimate news program (if there are any out there anymore) for a short while if you must. But let’s put an end to the 24/7, workin’-for-sound-bytes, cranking-out-designer-death-graphics, glorifying evil, microscopic but depthless, superfluous, horrible news shows.
I believe we are better than this. But we have to make choices and take actions that will ensure that we continue to be better than this. If we don’t watch, it will cease to be a lucrative media buy for advertisers. If we say No, it will go away.
Goals Accomplished. Sort of.
I had ambitious plans for the past week of stay-cation. In review, my to-do list:
Goal: Put books back onto new shelves in office room.
Accomplished and enjoyed. (Proving once again that I am just about 1 chromosome short of being OCD.)
Goal: Move old office furniture to basement.
Not accomplished. Stuff was way too heavy and I am way too clutzy.
Goal: Prevent self from being found dead and crumpled at foot of basement stairs beneath ginormous bookcase.
Accomplished!
Goal: Work out every day.
Accomplished. (Except for the every day part.)
Goal: Tidy up house.
Accomplished!
Goal: Stay up late and sleep in a lot.
Accomplished!
Goal: Buy wine.
Accomplished!
Goal: Break open the new Abbott & Costello DVD set.
Accomplished!
Goal: Tidy up the yard, put remaining porch furniture back into storage, clean gutters, hire someone to cut down trees.
Ahem. Um. There’s always next weekend? Or next spring?
Goal: Take Goodwill pile to Goodwill.
Nope, it’s still in my basement. But the pile is decidedly bigger now.
Goal: Get basement carpeted.
Nope.
Goal: Take pile of clothes to dry cleaner; hem new pants.
Nope and nope.
Goal: Update address book.
Made it to the Ks. Got bored.
Goal: Clean out garage.
ha! Nope.
Goal: Enjoy a 1:00 Steelers game.
Sh*t.
Goal: Scratch off pile of saved up lottery tickets and win enough money to avoid going back to work ever again.
Half-accomplished.
Sigh.
Doesn’t seem like I did much of what I thought I ought to. But, as my week off ends, I am relaxed and (trying hard to ignore the incessant chuckling and lip-smacking of the Back-to-Work Demons) feeling happy and destressified, which was my number 1 goal really. No airplane ride, no scenic drives, no souvenirs, no new vistas, but the house feels a bit more feng-shui-ish, there’s clean underwear in the drawer, there are new Abbott & Costello giggles in my head, and there’s still some wine left in the ‘fridge. It was a life-preserving week, and I think I’ll be okay.
Good night.
Thankful in 2012
As Thanksgiving Day begins, I am reminded of grade school when we were asked to hang a picture on the wall and state for all to see what we were thankful for. That activity holds such simplicity: the easy tasks of childhood as well as the true meaning of this holiday. Despite the attempts of retailers and advertisers to turn this day into one symbolic of gluttony and consumerism, in the hearts of most, this holiday remains, simply, a day to embrace family and friends, a day to relax, a day to be thankful.
Here is what I hang on the wall for 2012.
Although I did not like the number, I am thankful I had another Birthday.
I am thankful that I got to hang out with some wonderful people and refill the hug bank at a Schmidt Picnic in June.
I am thankful for my Aunt Ann who turned 90 this past week. And I am thankful for my new littlest cousin who arrived a couple of months ago.
I am thankful for my nephew Stephen, now a Marine, serving this great country.
I am thankful that I have a home, a car (with four new tires and a new alternator), and a job.
I remain thankful, every morning, for coffee. And I am thankful to have discovered the coffee cream frother!
I am thankful for cookies. And, likewise, thankful that I managed to get my old fat butt up and moving once again to do what all the experts say you can’t do: Lose weight in your 40s. (Yes, you can.)
I am thankful that, for the first time since sometime in the 80s when I became eligible to get a credit card, I have no credit card debt.
I am thankful for books. And audio books.
I am thankful for some home renovations. And I am thankful that my construction friend did not laugh too hard when he discovered that my baseboard in the kitchen has been sitting there unpainted and unattached since his last visit to put in the kitchen floor about 7 years ago.
I am thankful that my neighbor, Flo, fooled the doctors yet again and made it home in time to hand out Halloween candy with me.
I am thankful for facebook and the connections it has strengthened and the reconnections it has made possible.
I am thankful for my friends who keep me busy, keep me centered, keep me laughing. Thank you for game nights. Thank you for liking the same sushi place I like. Thank you for taking me bowling. Thank you for your philosophical, brilliant, hilarious correspondence. Thank you for dinners and drinks.Thank you for commiserating. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for my sanity.
I am thankful every single day of my life for my wonderful, weird, dear, and loving family who have made this year so much fuller and so much funnier. I am thankful for Mother-Daughter weekend. I am thankful for Wicked Weekend. I am thankful you had my house key. I am thankful for gorgeous room design support (and that you are feeling better). I am thankful for Overnight Fun Nights and kind of amazed that you still like to hang out with me. I am thankful for recipe tips, home tips, life tips, and that you are there when I call. I am blessed to be a part of this crew. I love you.
And, last but not least, I am exceptionally, happily, guiltily, giggly thankful that my sister-in-law and brother are doing all the work and all the cooking as our dinner hosts this year while I had time to sleep in and post to my blog while sipping coffee.
Ring a Ding Ding
Last week, due to a rattle in the car engine of my Sebring, I took it to the mechanic. He wasn’t 100% sure what the problem was but suspected the alternator. After doing some checking, he had discovered that Chrysler had seen a similar problem in their mini-vans, and the Sebring has the same alternator/same design as the Chrysler mini-van.
With fingers crossed a bit, we decided to replace the alternator.
And, so, with an appointment for this coming Friday and the car deemed likely drive-able, I began my Monday morning commute. November in Pittsburgh and it’s blue sky-sunshine gorgeous. I was clean, dressed, and on time. Traffic was light, and I had just emerged from the g.d.-stop-start-I-hate-to-drive part of my commute into the easy-breezy-I-love-to-drive part of my commute. I relaxed, I accelerated.
And it all went bat shit.
Every light on the dash came on and a bell ding-dinged, and the speedometer started bouncing like a windshield wiper. Then the speedometer flapped to zero and every light on the dash went out and the car lurched. And my heart flew up and over the first hill of a very high roller coaster.
Eyes darting for a place to pull over, brain squealing There’s no place to pull over!, it registered: I’m still moving. I, uh, didn’t stall. Speedometer’s on zero and the dash lights are all out, but I’m moving.
And so I drove. And it settled down. The dash lights came back on. The speedometer bounced back up and stayed there.
Yes, truly, I did consider pulling over and perhaps I should have. But I was running pretty smooth. And it isn’t easy to pull over on the highway. And I was only about 20 minutes from the mechanic’s. And, if it was the alternator, I’d likely be okay if I kept her moving. And so I drove. And it happened again. Ding! Ding! Ding! Speedometer bouncing. Lights out. Car lurch. Roller coaster without the wheeeeee!
And again. And again. And again. I lost count after 20. But, hand hovering over the hazard light button, constantly on the lookout for a spot to pull over, I drove. And, each ding-ding-bounce-lurch-crap!, I was one more minute, one more mile, one more “I might make it” closer to the mechanic’s driveway. Murmuring sweet encouragement to the car, I drove. Trusting to the guardian angel clip from my Aunt Theresa, I drove. Off-the-exit, almost-there, c’mon-baby-c’mon-baby-c’mon you beautiful beautiful ba-by . . .
I made it.
Involuntarily quivering from neck to knees, fighting off the oh-no-girl-don’t-you-dare wet-blinkies, I looked at the mechanic, exhaled, laughed, and said, “It’s been a wild ride. I’m leaving her here.”
Now, the silver lining of this tale is that the lights-ding-bounce-lurch craziness confirmed for him that it was indeed an alternator problem. And he told me again about the Chrysler mini-vans, rolling his eyes, he said, “They tell me there’s no issue with the Sebring, but the Chrysler mini-van has this issue, and the Chrysler mini-van has the same alternator design as the Sebring . . . ”
So, it’s fixable. And the very nearby Enterprise Rent-a-Car, despite it being Monday, their busiest day, does have a vehicle left for me to rent. My adrenalin shifts into neutral as the nice Enterprise lady grabs a clipboard, comes around the counter, and says, “It’s right out front!”
And indeed it was. There, ready to roll, recently washed, engine running, sat my rent-a-car: a Chrysler mini-van.
Inspection 2012
The First Call
My tires would pass inspection but are looking a bit worn headed into winter. This was not unexpected. I say, Okay; get some good ones. I put in a minimum of 50 miles a day commuting; I live on steep hills for some tough winter driving; I don’t skimp on tires.
The Second Call
The I-don’t-remember-what-they’re-called gadgets that indicate tire pressure and trigger a little dashboard light if it’s less/more than 32 psi are busted. All four of them—busted after less than 4 years of use.
Oh, I remember what they’re called! Badly Engineered Bits of Crap. (Good on ya, Chrysler.)
He wants to know if I want him to replace them. I’m thinking, meh, might as well. I’m thinking, it’s a nice little perk for a busy commuter. I’m thinking, how much can these bits of crap cost? And I ask. And he says, $165.
Uh.
Each.
Each!? To have a little light come on to tell me that my tire pressure is a tad off is going to cost more than I’ll be paying for four good, brand-new tires? More than my next three car payments combined? More than 165 gallons of gas? More than a year’s supply of beer? More than a plane ticket to the beach?
When I stopped laughing I said, No thanks.
And he explained that the normal repair kit won’t work in my car; my car requires factory replacements, yada something yada, which is why it’s so expensive. And I agreed it was indeed expensive, and said, rhetorically, And what happens if I don’t have them?
And he, taking me literally, explains that I’ll never know if I have a flat.
hee hee!
I say, Well, I’ve been driving for more than 30 years without a little light to tell me to check my tire pressure; I think I’ll be all right.
Then he wants to know if I’ll sue him if I have a blow out.
Sigh. I’m not sure which is the worse portent: A society that places such value on cheap complicated crap that will do something that you could easily do yourself or one that employs lawyers more often than common sense. But—you can all be witnesses—I’m not going to sue this guy because he didn’t replace the BEBC (Badly Engineered Bits of Crap), aka TPMS (Tire Pressure Monitoring System).
The Third Call
It’s time to pick up my car.
I’m minus a dashboard indicator light, but the Sebring still has some other free and very useful gadgets to handle tire pressure: my eyes, my ears, my brain, and a tire gauge in the glove box.
Life Preservers 
Charmin’ Ad
As part of my ongoing fascination with how truly bizarre, borderline gross, and 7th-grade funny Charmin’s marketing is, here is an ad that appeared in the margin of facebook today.
At least they’re not asking customers to share photos. Yet.
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June 3, 2013 at 1:27 pm 1 comment