Monday, January 24, 2011

Dragon's Blood, Irish Whiskey, & Land Speed Record

I came home from an eight-hour factory shift to find a still very pregnant, bored daughter just waking up from a day-long nap. "Can we go somewhere? Can we do something?" she queried.

"No." I retorted.

Just plain and simple, no. Had been hoping for a dinner date with hubby, but he phoned awhile ago to let me know he's disinclined to go out in the cold, so no date, and I figured I'd better go and see about starting dinner.

I don't know how I failed to spot the Leaning Tower of F*CKING Pisa in my kitchen sink when I came in from work. I must have been tired. (Imagine that!) Or preoccupied. (Imagine that!) Or dreaming of relaxing and knitting, or listening to music, or ALL THREE AT ONCE. (Imagine THAT!!!!)

Oh, well, I'll just unload the dishwasher and re-load it, since bored, pregnant daughter couldn't be bothered, and then I will push the rest of the dirty dishes aside and cook something.

But the dishwasher has been ailing and failing, and ladies and gentlemen, today it finally bit the dust, and its replacement will not be here until February 5th. I turn in dismay to the Leaning Tower of Pisa and realize, with sinking heart, that it equals four dishwasher loads, plus I have to re-wash, by hand, the dishes the dishwasher failed to clean.

I thought about how satisfying it would be to smash crockery, then realized that would make an even bigger mess to clean up than simply washing. All. Those. F*cking. Dishses. So, I commenced washing and grumbling, and even the divine Mr. Hart on the headphones only managed to bring my blood pressure down about half a notch.

After listening to me grumble and bang things around, Miss Preggers finally bestirred herself to come dry and put things away. Still, the job took over an hour. My desire to cook anything had long since evaporated, so hubby has been ordered to get himself a sandwich on the way home from work, or else he won't be eating tonight. He will pick one up for younger daughter as well, who has been out having Social Plans all afternoon, la-di-da!

Pissed, pissed, PISSED!!!!! This one has "gone to 11" yet again. Twice in less than a week, but at least this time it hasn't brought on chest pains.

So, here I am in my office -- my sanctum sanctorum -- burning Dragon's Blood incense, quaffing a big auld honkin' helpin' of Mr. Jameson's Finest on the Rocks, and blasting Husker Du's most excellent, noisy, abrasive "Land Speed Record." Since this is a very short album, and I probably have only 5 or 10 minutes of listening pleasure left, I'll probably be switching over to some Dead Kennedys or perhaps checking out another Flipper album.

Angelic chorister turned punk rocker. All those albums I never dared to bring home when I was 18, I am enjoying now. Yes, ENJOYING! No shame, no guilt, no apologies, no regrets.

The only odd thing, really, that doesn't quite jive with this picture is, when I'm done with this little rant, I'm either going to pick up my knitting or sit down at my spinning wheel. [TILT]

But the incense, whiskey, and Grant's raging against "Data Control" are calming me down. The f*cking dishes are done, the kitchen is clean, and I don't have to cook. This could be a relatively pleasant evening after all, especially if I add another wee dram of Jameson's...

No comments: